‘Do you love Sister Nicole?’ Annie asked her. The milk tasted thick and made her thirsty. Val had given her a flapjack for break and she shared it with Sandy. They sat in the playground on a wall which was wedged thick with other girls. The crumbs fell on to her skirt and she brushed them clear, anxious about grease. She did not want to have to ask Sarah for another one, there’d be enough jobs to do after today as it was.
Sandy’s cheek bulged with flapjack and she waved her hands and pointed to her mouth and Annie grinned. ‘Don’t rush,’ she soothed and was glad that Sandy was red-haired and had freckles because she reminded her of Grace except that she was skinny and her hair was more orange than red.
‘Oh, I loved old Nicole last term. This term it’s the gardener, he’s glorious. Watch out for Batty, she’s after break and squeaks the chalk and makes your teeth ache, then throws the board-rubber if you daydream. So you keep your head up and go to sleep with your eyes open or it’s the conservatory for you. That’s the punishment block you know.’ Sandy picked at a tooth with her tongue. ‘Lovely grub. Did your mother make it?’
‘No, I live with my guardian and the housekeeper. She made it.’
‘Oh, I live with my ma and pa, deadly dull and Ma will fuss so. Much more exciting to be different like you. Are your folks dead, then?’
‘Yes,’ Annie said, not wanting to open the black box by speaking of them. ‘How old are you?’
‘Dreadfully old for the class. I’m nearly 15 but we’ve been abroad and I got frightfully behind.’
‘Yes, I’ve lost some time too.’ Annie paused, then rushed on, not wanting to explain further, ‘I’m 15.’
Sandy grinned and squeezed her arm. ‘Good, someone to talk to at last. Jenn is another girl who’s older but she’s away at the moment. Got a bit of a tongue on her but she’s all right, I suppose. When we go for the garden walk, which we do every day after lunch, we can make up a three.’
‘A three?’
‘Oh yes.’ Sandy tapped her heels against the wall. ‘Have to go in threes, pairs create unhealthy friendships or so the old girls think. Wish they’d let us have a few healthy ones instead like a stroll with the gardener or something.’ She roared with laughter and dragged Annie up. ‘Come on, the bell’s going to go. Let’s get to the front of the line then we can grab a desk at the back. Batty’s aim isn’t so good then.’
It’s a different world, thought Annie, as she moved across the playground. It’s so easy and most of her would love it in time but there was still the sharp ache for lost alleyways and windswept dunes.
She felt in her pocket for Tom’s letter and wished there had been one from Georgie too.
That evening, Annie stood by the chicken-run, her fingers hooked into the wire. The hens were jerking about the run and already the ground was scratched near their coop but she loved the noise of the clucking, the glossiness of their feathers, the shine of the cock’s tail.
Sarah stood by her, with her arms crossed, her brown cardigan matching her skirt.
‘I thought we should get the cock, then you can hatch some chicks and sell them, or keep a few more layers, whichever you prefer.’
Annie felt a rush of relief; she had not been able to tell Sarah about the shoes or the sports kit and this would make it easier. Sarah went on:
‘I’ve been thinking about the shoes we bought, Annie. I do feel that it would be more economic to keep those for home and buy some sturdy ones for school. Your feet have practically stopped growing so they should last for ages. Would you mind very much if I asked you to help me in this way?’
Annie kept on looking at the chickens and nodded, her back to Sarah. Thank God, thank God, she thought but there was still hockey to sort out and if Sarah was economising? She chewed her lip.
Sarah continued. ‘I have some hockey clothes which a friend of mine has given to me. They used to belong to her daughter. You will no doubt be needing some this term.’ She was looking down at her and Annie felt her gaze. ‘And there’s my old hockey stick.’
‘You must be a witch,’ she said as she turned to look at her.
Sarah laughed with her head right back and put her hand on Annie’s shoulder where she allowed it to lie. Annie wanted it to, for a while.
‘No.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘Not guilty, Annie, but I had a look at the uniform list when I arrived at the office and realised we had made some mistakes.’
‘So, is it true then, about the economising?’ Annie asked, ready to draw back from her hand, to think of more work she could do. She wanted no charity.
Sarah felt the movement and said, with no hint of laughter now. ‘Absolutely, Annie. Good strong shoes as they suggest will be far more appropriate and last so much longer and I really have been given the sports kit. Now get those chickens fed and come in and settle down to some homework before dinner.’
‘Where’s Mr Beeston?’ Annie asked. ‘Sister Maria called you Mrs today.’
Sarah looked surprised, then amused. ‘Let’s just say I lost him, shall we?’ She stroked Annie’s hair and turned to go but stopped. ‘I wonder what Tom would think of these?’ she murmured. ‘Shall we ask him over and Georgie?’
Annie gripped the wire tighter. She kept her voice level as she replied. ‘Oh yes, and Tom will come but Georgie won’t, not until he’s ready.’ She pressed her lips together in a straight line and turned again to the chickens.
‘Well, what about Don?’ persisted Sarah.
‘That’s an idea. I’ve written to him telling him where I am but he’s very busy. When men leave home they build other lives, don’t they?’ Sarah nodded at her. ‘But I’ll write again and ask him. It’ll be good to see him, after so long. Hope he hasn’t grown too much.’
At Sarah’s quizzical look she explained that he needed to keep small for riding and Sarah nodded, laughing at the hen which was pecking near their feet. Then she walked down the cinder path, stopping to pull at a few stray weeds, then a lettuce.
‘Make it two,’ Annie heard Val call from the kitchen window. The Thoms next door were bringing in their washing from the line and called good evening to Sarah. There were birds in the apple trees down by the greenhouse and the sound of bees as they snuffled the fallen apples. Georgie had always said fallen fruit made them drunk and lazy and that’s when they would sting you more easily, forgetting that they would die.
She opened the gate to the run. It felt wobbly but was safe enough; it swung shut behind her and the bowl was half full of feed. The hens were pecking at the ground, brown and plump, lifting their feet as though they were about to burst into a dance with their eyes beady and swivelling. She threw corn to them and watched as they chatted about and chanted in excitement and one came jerking across while she squatted. She held the hen round the neck and stroked it and was surprised and disappointed that it was not soft all through but hard as though there was a brittle cage just beneath the feathers.
‘Never mind, bonny lass,’ she breathed. ‘Just you do a good job laying and we’ll get along fine. Who knows, you might get a bairn of your own.’
It was nice to talk in the words she had used in Wassingham because slowly but surely she already felt herself sliding over to the language of Sarah and the people who lived in this tree-strewn town.
She let the hen go as it pecked her and rubbed her finger and laughed. ‘Any more of that and you’ll be in the pot,’ and waved her hand at Sarah as she called her in for homework.
‘Ruddy slave-driver she is,’ called Annie to the cock and threw him the last of the corn as she headed back to the house.
The smell of sponge pudding wafted from the kitchen window and her mouth watered. It was still strange to have meals cooked for her, it made her feel guilty but pleased. The house had a paved area by the dining-room, under her bedroom and held wrought iron chairs and a table on which lay Val’s book from this afternoon. Annie stooped and picked it up as she passed. It was The Modern Compost Guide.
‘Annie, do come along,’ called Sarah. �
��Val has some ginger beer and cake here for you and then you must do some work.’
It was going to be hard to be unhappy here but she felt that the others should be sharing all this, that laughter should not come without Georgie, but it would, she knew that now and she also knew he would understand.
CHAPTER 13
Tom’s hands were cold. It was November. Annie had been gone for nearly three months and, this Sunday, Grace and he were walking out of Wassingham, along the road to Bell’s farm. It was a walk they had often taken when the four of them were together but now, just two of them remained. Georgie had left last month and Tom still did not know how to tell Annie.
He had come round to May’s last week when Tom was having his tea, knocked at the door and while Tom stood on the backstep wiping his mouth on the back of his hand he had said he was off. He had a suitcase which was bruised at the corner and ripped where the cardboard had softened too much. Tom had grabbed his arm and stepped out into the yard, shutting the door behind him and the light went with it, so that he had been unable to see Georgie’s face.
Are you going to her, man? he had asked, but Georgie had shaken his head. Not yet, our Tom, I’m off to see if there’s something better away from here and you’d do well to think on that too, Tom. The pit’s hard, Annie doesn’t want it for you, you know that, but Tom had shaken off words about himself, it was Georgie who was going, Georgie he would miss.
What about going to Don? he had said. You and he was mates, he’d get you a job in the stable.
Georgie had laughed and picked up his suitcase. I’m going further than that lad and higher. Down south, I think, that’s where the jobs are. May had called through the door that his tea was getting cold and Davy had come out then, the light had shone too bright and they turned away. The tin bath was propped up on one side of the wash-house and threw a long shadow down the yard. Come away in Georgie, Davy had said, there’s enough for you too, but Georgie had said no and punched Tom lightly on the arm. Take care, bonny lad, and then he’d turned and walked in his measured stride to the gate and was gone. They’d listened to his boots on the cobbles and Tom had pictured the sparks striking from them.
As he and Grace walked round the bend the wind was blowing from the east, harder now than it had been and he grasped his sketch-book more securely under his arm and hunched his shoulders, turning up his collar.
‘Oh, so you’re back with me then,’ Grace said from his side, poking at his arm. ‘If I had a penny, I’d give you one for ’em.’
‘For what, bonny lass?’ he said, grinning at her.
‘Just for your thoughts, so that’s quite enough of that.’
They laughed and he pointed to the path leading off the road up over the sparse farmland where sheep grazed.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go over the top of the hill. It’s a better view and we’ll sit in the usual place while we have our picnic.’
And I can help you over that too, he thought, as she nodded and they turned towards the wooden stile.
‘Give us your bag.’ He took it and put it with his by the end of the hawthorn hedge. ‘For God’s sake, mind yourself on the thorns,’ he called, as he grasped her arm. The hedge was stripped of leaves now and the thorns were eager to snag their skin.
‘Don’t know about keeping in the sheep,’ Grace said, as she stepped up, ‘but there’s no way I’d try and get through that lot.’
She was still plump, our Grace was, thought Tom, as he watched her teeter on the first bar, and he gripped her harder. But she’d grown, bye, she’d grown and had breasts like any he’d seen in Botticelli’s pictures, or he thought she would have beneath her clothes anyway. Her body must be creamy and dimpled and that hair, free of its plait could curl all about her shoulders and her back and he would paint her one day with one strand between those breasts. She was so nice too, was Gracie, like Aunt May. Plump and kind with blue eyes like cornflowers that grew in the meadow down by the beck. And teeth that were even and white. Her freckles were soft beige.
‘Give us a hand then, you daft dollop,’ Grace called, one leg half over the top bar. There was no step up this side, the wood had fallen clear. He kicked it to one side then came behind her and levered up her buttocks and she shrieked and tried to slap him but he dodged and said:
‘For God’s sake girl, I’m doing you a favour. Get yourself over, will you, before you break me bloody back.’
But he grinned as she scrambled over and jumped down the other side. She was flushed and panting and pulled her dress down where it had hitched up above her knee.
‘You can get yourself over, and the bags,’ she stormed and stalked across the grass, her head up, her hands busy trying to tuck stray curls back into the curves and hollows of her plait.
Aunt May had packed bread and cheese and a flask of tea and the bag banged against his side and against Grace’s which hung over his shoulder too as he caught up with her. As he took her arm, she sniffed then glanced sideways at him. He grinned, then so did she.
The farm was half a mile away now, he reckoned. It was strange coming here on their own. It had always been a race to the top with the other two. Georgie always won, he was second, though Annie had beaten him twice and Grace had insisted on walking with the bags. She said it was undignified but they all knew that she didn’t like the wobble of her body and loved her for it.
The oaks near the road were the only trees on which leaves remained, though even they clung in shrivelled clusters and would come down if the wind increased. The sheep grazed all around them as they walked and those in front moved away as they approached. Tom liked the farm, liked the walk to it, the picnic in the hollow on the far side of the hill and the view from there which he had sketched again and again. Each time it varied; the cart was not there or had a different load and the sky behind was blue or grey or flecked with rain. He patted his pocket. Yes, they were still there; the pencils Annie had sent with her last letter. She’d been to Woolworth’s, she’d said, where everything was under sixpence.
They were breasting the hill now and the wind snatched at their breath as it whirled across from the sea over to their right, but too far for them to see. There were no sheep up here on the top but rocks showed through the scant soil and the wind tugged at what grass there was and pulled and pushed at the dark spiked gorse-bushes that almost, but not quite, reached the crest. The farm lay at the bottom.
Tom looked at Grace, at her hair with its escaped curls leaping and flicking about her face and reached across and pulled the collar of her thick cardigan up round her neck. They dug heavily into the ground with their heels as they began the descent.
He took her hand loosely, wondering if she would pull away but she did not. He tightened his grip and she did also and then they looked at one another and smiled. It was not so bad after all, thought Tom, coming back here without Annie and he whooped into the air, scattering the sheep and making Grace laugh.
He pulled her faster and faster until they were running and she was with him and laughing and not pulling him to stop. Leaping from hillock to hillock, avoiding the molehills and the sheep which thudded away from their path until the breath bounced in him and they were taking great gulps of air and laughter. He lost his footing half way down and dropped her hand as he rolled over and over, seeing the grass, the sky, his sketch-book as it flew from his hand, his bait-bag as it leapt as he rolled. Over and over he went until he fetched up on the flattened area that was theirs. He lay flat, his arm out, his bag and Grace’s flung over his chest, laughing and panting until gradually he was able to heave himself up on his elbow and look for her.
She was running along the hill, not down it, chasing the loose pages from his pad which the wind was sucking and blowing into the air, turning them about and letting them swoop, but always too far for Grace to reach.
‘Leave them, Grade,’ he called. ‘Leave them and come on down.’
He watched as she turned and cupped her hand to her ear. Her skirt was blowing
up over her knees and tight against her legs.
‘Leave them,’ he called again, then beckoned her with exaggerated hand movements and she saw and came down but not running now, though she was laughing. He could see that and hear her.
‘Oh, you great daft thing,’ she said. ‘No wonder Wainwright gave you a belting. I’m surprised he didn’t expel you for breaking his cane.’
She sat down next to him and they edged up so that their backs were against the slope.
The sheep were tearing at the grass all around them, calm again.
‘Our Davy had a word with him, or so May said, so he only stopped me from painting, but Mr Green lets me take paints home with me so it doesn’t matter that much.’
Grace shook her head and reached for her bag. ‘It’s as well you’ve got Davy now. He’s taken over from Annie.’ She brought out some bread and dripping.
‘He’ll not do that, nobody’ll take over from Annie.’ His voice was devoid of laughter now. It was hard and firm. Grace looked at him sideways, sinking her teeth into the crust, it was tough and with her fingers she tore a piece and chewed it.
‘Not even me?’ she asked, looking down at the farm this time.
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s common.’ He slapped her leg and pulled a face. ‘You’re not me sister, are you? I feel something different for you.’
He felt the ground cold through his trousers and brought out from his bag an old knitted baby blanket. ‘Lift your backside and stop being daft.’
He put the blanket beneath her and she handed him what was left of his book. The pages were askew and out of order. ‘All that’s left after the wind had a look.’
‘Never mind lass,’ he said leafing through them, straightening the pages. ‘I’ll do the farm again. They were just sketches of the yard.’
‘Have something to eat, for God’s sake,’ she said. He looked at her bread and dripping and handed her some of his cheese that he had dug out of May’s parcel. The wind was far less raucous where they sat sheltered by the slope behind and it seemed unnaturally quiet. Even the rooks settled along the branches of the elms around the farm were silent as though bowed in sleep.
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