‘Gas is dirty soldiering, you know.’ Archie was talking in a conversational tone now. ‘Dirty soldiering. The noise was getting worse. It was still dark but there wasn’t long to go until daylight, until we went over. I was by the signal dug-out. If I hadn’t been there, it would all have been different. Captain Mollins called out: “Manon, get down to the gas company, they’ve lost their officer. Shot through the head. Let off the gas. It’s got to go before dawn. We want it on the Germans and clear of no man’s land by the time we get over. Get on with it, man.”’
Archie’s voice was no longer calm, its pitch was higher, the strain was in every word.
‘I slipped as I turned to him. My sergeant held me up. The mud was greasy beneath my hand and I was on my knees. A shell hit the trench further down, the barrage was still blasting away, the noise was horrendous. Mud flew over us. “But sir,” I said “there’s no wind.”’
Archie was shaking, he was wiping his hands as though to free them of mud, but they were shaking too much so he put them between his thighs again.
‘“Do as you’re bloody well told, Manon. We need that gas. It’s five of clock already, man. We’re going over at six.” He was shouting, his face pushed towards me but I could only just hear him against the crash and scream of the shells. I pushed back towards the gas enclave, climbed over the collapsed trench to get there. There were bits of men in it. I trod on a leg. The gas team were waiting. The shells from our battery were falling short, landing around us. There was flying mud everywhere. It was impossible to think.
‘The sergeant was struggling with the valve on the gas cylinder. “Give me that,” I said, and took the spanner, it was icy. The rain had stopped and there was a mist so I knew there was definitely no wind. I sent a runner back, Bob. “Tell him there’s no wind,” I said. We were pushing back the sandbags all the time. They were being shaken down as fast as we replaced them. My sergeant was killed by a sniper, shot through the eye. The runner came back. The captain had said, “Get it off now,” so I did.’ Archie was quieter now.
‘The cylinder discharged all right, but the gas fell back into the trench. It’s heavier than air you see and there was no wind to blow it across.’
Bob nodded but Archie did not see.
‘It fell back and the company stampeded, struggling to get their gas masks on. Why didn’t they put them on before? Why hadn’t I ordered them to? God knows.’
He was shaking and rocking. ‘They stampeded over the top but they weren’t the only ones. The push had started too soon, we had lost our advantage of the light and the Germans put flares up and could see us all.
‘The wire wasn’t cut in front of us. My mask was on, I don’t know how. I was alright but those who had survived the gas were being cut to ribbons on the wire, shot to bits and hanging like rag dolls a few feet in front of the trench. I was cutting it, trying to cut it, tear a way through when I felt a hand on my leg, pulling at me. It was my corporal drowning, yellow-faced in the gas, his buttons already tarnished green.
‘“Murderer, murderer,” he bubbled. Someone from further down the line was screaming. I trod on him, Bob, ground him into the mud, anything to get him away from me, and then a shell exploded, it must have been near. Knocked me out but didn’t kill me. God damn it, it didn’t kill me.’
All he could hear were the screams and the guns. He looked at his hands and rubbed the palms and Bob could see that they were crossed with white scars. He reached across and held Archie’s wrist. Forced him to take a drink, guided it to his mouth. The frenzied shaking had ceased.
Bob looked keenly at Archie. ‘It happened all the time, old friend. It was a nightmare and no one was to blame in that chaos.’
Archie smiled but it was without humour. ‘I’ve said that a thousand times, Bob, and it just doesn’t bloody help. I killed a lot of people that day and I wonder every night, I wonder, if it wasn’t because I just wanted to kill myself. I’d just returned from burying Mary and wanted to die, so did I let off that gas deliberately?’
There was silence in the room except for the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the crackle of the fire.
‘No,’ Bob said gently. ‘No, you didn’t, and it’s best not to think about it. Life is very strange and we do the best we can. That’s all, we just muddle through.’
Archie seemed exhausted, perhaps a little more at peace with himself, but Bob was not sure. He watched him as he slowly collected himself.
‘Anyway,’ Archie said in a voice which betrayed his tiredness, ‘it’s over with now, and yes, maybe one day we will get middle-class unions. Baldwin really would go demented if he thought that was on the cards. Who knows, Bob, maybe one day you’ll have Labour back in. You should think of that, think of big-time politics for yourself.’
Bob silently applauded Archie’s attempt to regain the thread of their earlier conversation. ‘No, Archie, I’m too old for that particular game. Not enough fire in the belly. I’ve too much to do here anyway, too much everyday trouble in the area.’
A silence fell, a companionable silence, and Bob was relieved that, if anything, the relationship had been improved by the glimpse into a private hell.
Their glasses were empty and the fire was dying. Archie looked at the clock. ‘It’s very late. You must get some rest.’ He looked at Bob earnestly. ‘It’s good that you have much to do. That’s the way it should be, my friend. Thoughts of tomorrow.’ As he rose he nodded. ‘Yes, that’s as it should be.’
They moved from the front room into the hall which was lit by a solitary gas lamp. Archie took his worn coat and hat; Bob helped him into it. His scarf was still hanging on the hook and Archie took it and wound it round his neck while Bob opened the door.
The snow had stopped and there was only a light sprinkling on the ground. The night air stabbed at their lungs and Archie lifted his scarf across his face.
‘Have a good sleep, Archie,’ said Bob, touching his elbow.
Archie stood looking out across the street. ‘It’s the dreams though, Bob, the faces, the voices. They make strange bedfellows these days and there’s too much noise in my head to find answers to them or the problems of the shop.’
He shrugged and began to walk down the street, his feet unsteady on the slippery cobbles. He turned back to Bob. ‘Today, my little Annie did what I should have done; did as she thought right, and I punished her.’ He paused, ‘Thank God these children at least won’t know the feel of a war.’
He moved away, lifting his hat to Bob.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Bob called after him and watched until he reached the corner. He closed the door. He did not know what else to do.
CHAPTER 7
The tram-stop was a bare one hundred yards from their shop and the morning was crisp and most houses were quiet. It was Boxing Day. The tram rattled to a stop and Archie pushed Annie and Don, then Tom and Betsy before him on to the platform. He might be without his watch, but who cared. Today was special. Today his family was going to Newcastle, to the pantomime, and Donald could redeem the damned watch any damn time he wished. He, personally, had no need of a watch any more. He felt euphoric, as though the decision he had made had drawn every line stronger, every colour brighter and the years were shed and the minutes savoured.
His gaiety was infectious and the children scrambled on to the bench laughing, pushing and poking. Betsy and Archie settled themselves opposite. Betsy had borrowed powder from Ma Gillow to hide the meandering red veins in her cheeks and nose. She’d begged a coat for the day also though she still had no gloves that would fit over her knuckles, so instead she kept them bunched in her pockets.
Annie was wedged between Don and a stranger whose heat penetrated and touched her. She tensed, stiffening against the sway and lurch and fought away from the pressure of the unknown body which pressed closer to her than her closest friend Grace would ever dare. The woman had thighs that should have been hanging in the butcher’s but which instead nudged against her and her floppy bosom pulled
at the buttons fastening her coat. She had a sweaty face and perspiration lay along the line of her scarlet lipstick which was sticky and had gathered into a lump at the corner of her mouth. Annie wondered how she ate without clogging up her innards.
She laughed inside, grinning up at Don, winking at Tom. It was so wonderful to be actually going to the city, going to the Empire to see Peter Pan just when she had thought that nothing bright would ever break the long grey winter.
She dug her hands deep into her pockets, regretting that Don’s Christmas present of pear-drops had split their bag and seemed fluffy to the touch, but then who would see in the dark of the theatre?
Don was quiet, she thought. He had changed since he had left home. It wasn’t just that his hair was short or his voice deep. He seemed further from them than ever now that he was away so much, even when he was this close, and she felt she hardly knew him. She had noticed Betsy and Da sitting either side of the basket so as not to squash themselves buttock to buttock. She bit her lip; her father was so neat today and small beside Betsy who was doughlike and spreading. Jack Sprat had nothing on this little lot she thought.
She looked past Don to Tom.
‘Stop picking your nose, Tom,’ she whispered, reaching across to slap his hand. ‘Don’t think you’re too far away for me to get at you.’
‘Weren’t picking,’ he mouthed as he leaned forwards. Just itching it, that’s all.’ He tucked his hand beneath his legs and hunched his shoulders. ‘It’s good, isn’t it, Annie, altogether like this.’ His eyes were alight and his grin was broad.
Annie wanted to put her arm across and toss his hair and press him to her. He was such a bonny lad with his smile that always seemed to be waiting to plaster itself all over his face, if it wasn’t already there.
She nodded. ‘Yes, lad, that it is.’
He looked so much better for having wrapped himself round Aunt May’s Christmas pud and had brought her back a bit an’ all. It had hardened as the suet set but had been rich and sticky.
The tram windows were steamed behind their heads but she could sense the darkness of the station terminal as they arrived. It had blotted out the midday sun. The bustle and noise of the station, as they stepped down, confused her; it seemed to be all around, swirling in a senseless pattern, opening and closing around them as they stood while their father decided which way to go.
‘Come along,’ he called, sweeping foward into the mêlée, and she reached for Tom’s sleeve, tugging at him and running along behind her father’s hurrying back. If they missed the train, oh, she couldn’t bear to think of it. Instead of swanking in the new school term, there would be nothing to tell.
‘I’m not going to disappear in a puff of smoke,’ he panted. ‘Let go of me arm, Annie, I’m all at an angle.’
But she wouldn’t, she was too excited to hear him.
Archie turned, still walking, his face red. He looked again at the chalked boards. ‘Come on, Annie,’ he called and took her hand. ‘You must keep up with us, we haven’t time to wait for you both.’
They all broke into a run as a train steamed and roared to a spark-spitting halt and the steps were a blur as they raced up over the bridge, then down the other side. The hoarse smell was everywhere. As they approached, the train doors lurched open and swung, slapping against the sides. Annie saw her father and Betsy climb aboard. She sucked more breath into her lungs.
‘Come on, Tom,’ she shrieked. Don was urging them on. He stood with one foot on the platform, one on the train.
‘For God’s sake, get a move on,’ he bawled and, as they arrived, he heaved at her elbow. ‘Bloody girls,’ he hissed. She shut her eyes over the yawning gap between platform and train.
‘Get Tom, too,’ she cried, her voice high and seeming to come from the top of her head. Doors were being slammed the length of the train and finally they were all in.
Their carriage was empty but for them and Annie threw herself on to the seat, heaving a sigh of relief. She pulled Tom down beside her and they laughed and couldn’t stop. The seats were prickly and dark red and the paintings of the seaside which were screwed to the wall above them looked dull and uninviting. She tucked her coat beneath her, gasping at the lurch and stagger as the train set out for the city.
There were arms with ashtrays between each place and Annie screwed her nose up against the smell. Black-tipped matches were piled up in the dead ash. A lipstick-tinged cigarette-end had been ground out on the floor. She had heard Georgie telling Don about women like that, it was a sure sign, he had said. If one of them girls up the market is standing smoking in broad daylight with thick red lips, you can lay a penny to a pound she’s on the game. Common as muck they are, he’d said. She’d asked what ‘game’ was and they told her to wait until she was grown up, then they’d tell her. They never had.
The countryside had a smattering of snow but most of it had thawed yesterday. There had been so little anyway and she was rather glad because Tom would have wanted to go sledging and she couldn’t bear the cold. It seemed to be racing past; the cattle in the fields looked unreal. In the distance she could see a farmer as he laid down straw by a water-trough. He seemed from another world and she wondered if people in the train had felt the same when, or if, they had seen a group of children in the meadow by the beck that day so long ago.
The picnic buns were still warm from this morning’s baking and, long before they drew into the yawning Newcastle station, Betsy passed round chicken which oozed and hung out of tangy rolls. Even Don looked wide-eyed at such luxury and Annie thought the world had gone mad.
‘Thought black pudding would be the height of it,’ Tom murmured as he held his and just looked.
She looked at her da who smiled and Betsy who nodded and then she sank her teeth into the soft white meat and lifted up her shoulders and hugged her elbows to her sides. She could hardly breathe through the pleasure.
The taxi her da pushed them into, when they came out through Newcastle Station, was so tall they could almost walk into it. There were three small seats which flipped down behind the driver and she and Tom sat on those while Don tried to choose between sitting high up between Betsy and Da or low down with them. Annie knew it was no contest and was not surprised when he squashed in next to Betsy and smiled down on them as though he was Lord Muck.
The Empire was bright and like Christmas had always seemed as though it should be. They stood across the road and watched the crowds as they spilled into the foyer. Annie could not believe that she was actually going through the front and could look the red-uniformed commissionaire in the eye. She nudged Tom and he winked, his shoulder bracing back as he moved closer in the noise of the traffic, the smell of exhaust and the clatter of horse-drawn carts. There was not one pony as small as Beauty, he thought.
‘It’ll be great to go in the front way, bonny lass,’ he whispered and Annie laughed, glad that his thoughts had found their way through to hers. She could feel in her mind the weight of the exit bar at the flea-pit which she had so often heaved up to let the others in. Six for the price of one was good going. Georgie, Grace, Tom and Don and whoever had tagged along that day. Today though, there was to be no ducking as the usherette came down the aisle. Maisie had known who had passed her torch as she stood in the doorway into the cinema and who had just appeared but she had only found them once. Today they could forget it all and just be there, maybe even have some chocolates.
Inside the shell-shaped lamps were pink, the curtains were a vivid red that soaked up the light in patches and was dark and bright in turn. Excitement hummed and was echoed deep within Annie and her hands felt limp with satisfaction. She turned to her father and smiled.
‘Thank you, Da,’ she said.
He nodded, handing her the binoculars, but with these she could only see parts of the whole and she preferred to be without detail and soak in the buzz and laughter. The chocolate was passed. It was already soft and stuck to the roof of her mouth. She sat perfectly still to let it last. There
was its stickiness around her mouth and on her hands until Betsy licked her handkerchief and wiped around her lips and it smelt of her breath until Annie dragged her sleeve harshly across her face. She grimaced at Tom who tried to jerk his head back but Betsy scrunched his hair in her hand until she was done. He shuddered at Annie and leaned nearer.
‘We need one of those, then she won’t do it.’ He pointed to Don’s straggly moustache. ‘That means they’ve dropped, you know.’
‘Shut up you little –’ Don growled, not daring to call him names so close to his da.
‘I’d rather have me mouth wiped,’ answered Annie. ‘They’d stick me in the circus if I had one of those.’
Archie ignored these exchanges. He was training his glasses on the boxes which held calm ordered well-dressed families. All the excitement seemed to come from the well of the theatre and the cheap seats where they were sitting. The orchestra were in the pit, tuning their instruments. It wouldn’t be long now.
The heat beat against Betsy and she ignored the bickering between Don and the others. Her dress was too faded and stained to remove her coat so she had to endure the next few hours in it. She opened the collar and let her hands hang as far from her body as the seating would allow. It was good to be away from the shop and Wassingham and Archie looked young again and eager. That was it, she thought, he looked eager as though he knew of a secret joy. He was still such a strange man, so stiff and alone. Her head felt heavy as the lights dimmed and her thoughts trailed away. Her hands were eased by the warmth and she was comforted by the lack of pain. Her chin dropped to her chest.
Annie looked at Betsy. As long as she doesn’t snore, she thought. Please God, don’t let her snore. She looked along the row beyond her father to Don and saw him unwrap the muffler she had knitted for his present. She had noticed how he had run his fingers between it and his skin a thousand times since he had wrapped it round his neck but hadn’t removed it until now and that was kind.
After the Storm Page 13
