They reached the lines and bowed and barely breathed as feet slopped along in boots which seemed too large always and had to be held on with binding. It was frayed Annie saw and the boots were dirty and scuffed up small clouds of dust as they approached and stopped. The blow knocked her across the doctor on to the ground and the sand was gritty in her mouth, blood trickled from the corner; she lay motionless.
‘You come speedo, you bad woman.’ The boot kicked and hands dragged her upright and Annie felt the stickiness of his spit as words were hurled. ‘You stand here all day. Look at sun, all day.’
Her face was rigid with animal fear, she felt urine escape and stain her shorts. The bamboo caught her across her midriff cutting into the flesh where her uniform was torn. She was silent. It struck across her hands and she screamed and though her eyes were open she could see no faces and then they filed away as the pain covered her.
‘Ichi, ni, san, yong,’ kept leaping and snarling in amongst the pain which coiled tight now around her broken finger. The guard smelt and beige roses merged into glaring white suns which wrung the sweat from her body. Her tongue grew large in her mouth, her lips cracked and burst and her throat was too swollen to swallow.
‘Look at sun.’ The guard kicked and turned her body, but her eyes stayed shut and he could not force them open. She fell and large boots kicked her up. She partially opened her eyes and fixed them on the tear in his trousers, then the verandah in the distance and then at Prue standing on the steps and she did not fall again.
‘Chin up, darling.’
Not bloody likely, sang her mind, and dehydration wrung her miles away and she heard the wind on the dunes and felt the sharp sting of the sand and the waves as they rushed and swirled and she felt his hands and drank his tears. Look at the boots, she thought, look at the huts. What can I put on the white curtains? And finally dusk came and Prue and Monica carried her to her bed, away from the mumbles of the hospital. They pushed her in from the end of the pallet since there was no space between the platforms. Prue slowly poured a little tepid water into her half-open mouth and Monica held a soaking cloth to her head and the doctor strapped her hand.
‘That’ll teach you to be late, you silly clot,’ Prue said and pressed her hand to Annie’s cheek. ‘For God’s sake, I’ll get you there on time if I have to drag you tomorrow.’
Annie spoke and Prue leant close.
‘Glass bowl with bamboo, OK.’
During the next five months Annie finished all the bedrooms and the sitting-room and her finger was beginning not to hurt and her eyes to see clearly again. One Monday in June, the guards issued postcards and Prue had the only pencil in the hut. It was short and an HB which smudged in their sweat-drenched hands. They filled in the blanks. ‘I am quite …. ., what should we put?’ asked Annie.
‘Quite well, if you value your other hand,’ responded Prue. So she did. Flies were crawling over her face and the corners of her mouth. She was too tired to move them, only to have them resettle in the next breath.
‘I’m sending mine to Daddy. What about you Annie?’
Annie had been looking at the work-party breaking up dried lumps of soil with emaciated fingers, shorts stained with dysentery. It seemed a betrayal to name a survivor for surely, if she pointed a finger, God would find them and they would be killed. Georgie or Tom or Don, who should she send it to?
She watched as the working women fingered the small segments to dust and moved, crouching, along the line to bang another large piece on to rock-hard ground, then again and again. Vegetables were to be growing for the 1945 September inspection, so they would be showing if they wanted to live. It was her turn tomorrow when she had finished her duty.
‘I’ll send it to Georgie,’ she challenged. ‘He’ll think I’ve turned senile looking at this writing though.’ Her hands had shaken since the beating. They were improving but not much.
Doctor Jones came out on to the verandah and looked down at them. Her face was set and she held her finger to her lips.
‘Number three bed has diphtheria,’ she whispered, and Annie broke out in a rush of sweat as she scrambled to her feet, pulling Prue.
Doctor Jones stood with her hand in the pockets of her linen coat. ‘It could go round the camp like wildfire. Absolute rest for her and isolation; my room at the end.’ She walked out into the heat of the square. ‘I’m going to see the commandant. They don’t like epidemics in case they catch it. Perhaps we’ll get some disinfectant from the old devil.’
She turned. ‘Write her postcard for her Annie please and we’ll steam her pallet when I get back. For now, strain her water through the last of the disinfectant. The two beri-beri cases are in the last stages. Both of you pretend to write their cards please.’
The disinfectant came while they were dragging the large oilcan from the cookhouse to the bricks which the commandant had given them for the sterilization of the bedding. Their legs shook but the can had to be back for lunch and they could not bear the thought of the mid-day sun as they worked. They worked up the fire inside the bricks and boiled up the can; the steam began to rise and they stood either side on old buckets and held the pallet over the top. The steam billowed out at their faces and their hands and Annie’s arms shook and her hand ached.
‘Frightfully good for the pores, darling,’ breathed Prue. Finally it was done. They damped the fire with earth and tipped the water out of the can before stumbling back to the cookhouse balancing the pallet on the top of the can.
As they placed it down there was a shudder and Annie staggered slightly, grabbing at the verandah for support but that was shaking also. There was another shudder and a distant rumble and Annie remembered the tiled floor in the nurses’ home and the crash of falling bombs, searchlights which stabbed the sky and knew that it was here again.
‘Air raid, Prue. It’s a damned air raid.’ The doctor was calling them back to the hut and they ran with the pallet, past guards whose neckcloths flapped as they rushed across to the prisoners and herded them inside, standing guard outside the closed doors.
The hospital door was also slammed shut and in the dark they each went from bed to bed soothing until Doctor Jones sent Prue into the diphtheria case and Monica to the two with beri-beri.
‘It’s the allied planes,’ Annie soothed as she passed between patients. ‘Yes, it must be getting near the end.’
Near the bloody end, she sang to herself. Can it really be near the end? Was there still a world out there beyond the wire and, if so, would their guards let them live to see it?
The guards pinned up black-outs and the beatings became more savage and Annie’s finger was broken again. Prue had a bad sore throat and couldn’t eat her rice. It was diphtheria.
Annie nursed her in the doctor’s room, swabbing and sponging, straining the water until she could smell nothing but disinfectant, but still the disease ravished what little was left of Prue’s body. For weeks the bombs came but never hit the camp. The ground shuddered, not every day or night but enough to make the guards more cruel and the women more frightened, for now they all asked the question; would they be allowed to live if Japan was defeated? Long into the night Annie sat and held Prue’s hand and somehow she lived but lost her mind and sat winding her hair round and round her middle finger and smiling and doing as she was asked but only for Annie.
Annie cut her hair and streaked the fringe and took her to tenko and made her bow when she should and stand when she should so she was not beaten. She made her eat her rice but Prue whimpered unless the rabbit was made to find its hole.
‘She could pick up, Annie,’ the doctor told her as they wound the bandages in the evenings. The smell of the coconut oil lamp was not unpleasant. It was the same as it had been for three and a half years and perhaps it kept the mosquitoes away.
‘It’s not exactly a world anyone in their right mind would rush back to, is it?’ Annie replied. ‘So perhaps she is the only sane person here.’ She put her hands on the table; they were trembling
badly again. ‘Do you think the Allies will ever come and, if they do, will we be alive to see them?’
Doctor Jones patted her hand. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I dare to hope that we’ll survive but at others …’ She shrugged. ‘I just don’t understand these people.’
‘At least they’ve broken the sahibs’ rule, haven’t they? They’ve pricked the bubble now. We’ve been coolies too and we bleed like the Malays do. We’ve spoilt it for the ladies who danced at Raffles, spoilt their image haven’t we?’
‘Perhaps not before time?’ the doctor murmured and Annie was surprised.
‘I worked in Liverpool in the thirties, before I went back to Sydney. Those bloated little bellies were not so very different to these in the camp.’
They sat in silence for a while. Moths flew at the flame and one was caught.
‘Will you go back to England or Australia?’ Annie asked.
‘I’m not sure yet. What about you?’
‘I have a house and I’m going to decorate it but I want the sea as well. I want to walk by the sea again where the wind can clean me and my eyes can stretch forever. I want to run my business and to live with Georgie.’ She said it quietly, rolling the bandages again, feeling the creases and smoothing them out.
‘In that order?’ the doctor asked.
Annie could not answer.
CHAPTER 27
Bob and Tom sank yet another beer. It was still watered down but it tasted like ambrosia and, bugger me, thought Tom, if I don’t feel like a bloody God. VE day had been grand with lights blazing from windows out into the streets for the first time in years but this was even better.
‘July 5th and Labour’s in.’ Tom drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Hitler would turn in his bunker if he knew, eh Bob. Socialism in England when he wanted to kill ’em all. Bye, makes you feel grand doesn’t it, man?’
Bob chuckled. ‘Aye lad, it does, that it does. No depression after this war and if there is, no one will starve anyway.’ The pub was full of men, sun streamed in through windows and there were banners on all the sills.
‘Have another drink, Bob.’ Tom wiped his mouth with his hand. A toast to Clem Attlee, eh, and how about one for Wainwright, wherever he may be.’
Bob laughed ‘We’ve had enough, Tom. Let’s get back to see Bobby before Grace takes him to bed.’
Tom sprang to his feet, his face breaking into a grin. He shoved his change into his pocket. ‘It’s all been worth it then, Bob. War’s over and Labour’s in and Don’s bloody livid.’ He showed Bob Don’s postcard. He would be demobbed by August.
The pub had filled since they came in and they pushed their way through the groups of excited miners, slapping backs and grinning, until they reached the door. The sun was still hot and the light creased their eyes until they adjusted to the glare. The streets they walked down were humming with activity. Women hung around their front doors, aprons on and sleeves rolled up, some with bairns on their hips. Men laughed over cigarettes, dark from the pit still, unwilling to go home until the victory was talked into manageable size.
Tom and Bob turned into the back alley and then through the yard gate. The kitchen door was open with Bobby sitting on the step. Grace turned from the wall; Mrs Fenney was leaning over and they were laughing.
‘Now you’re here, Tom Ryan, you can wind down this line for me,’ ordered Grace and collected together the last of the washing. ‘Staying for a bite are you, Bob?’
As she carried the basket into the house, Tom slipped up behind her and kissed her neck. Mrs Fenney laughed and Grace squealed.
‘Tom, I can smell beer on you. You can just behave yourself.’
But by now Bobby was pulling at his trousers and laughing. He weighed nothing at all as Tom swung him into the air, then back close into his arms. He blew gently down his neck and nuzzled his son, who had skin which was almost too soft to feel.
Working as a checker gave him more time for the lad and it pleased him. The committee work at the pit consumed one evening a week and was as interesting as Bob had promised it would be and still gave him time for his painting class with the lads.
‘Come on Bob, get sat down.’ He steered him into his usual chair to the left of the fire which was a dull glow on this hot day. The irons were already heating on the hot plate. He slapped his cap on the table and, still carrying Bobby, sat down and stroked his brown hair as they gathered their thoughts in silence. The beer had made his body loose and he kissed his son’s head. The clock was ticking on the mantelpiece.
‘It was the bombers really, wasn’t it?’ Tom said eventually. ‘That’s what won the election. It dragged lice and smelly kids into posh homes all over the country. Bye, I bet some noses had a shock. The old ’uns too, bombed out and nowhere to go. Made a few people think, I reckon. Think about how the posh lived, how the poor lived.’
‘The press certainly splashed it all over the papers,’ agreed Bob.
‘Free milk, free school dinners, they’ll be keeping those on, I reckon, and Davy should have been here since I dare say they’ll be extending that Family Allowance the evacuees had.’
‘Archie will be the one turning in his grave if you’re not careful, Tom. Can’t you hear him saying, “Lunch, if you don’t mind, Thomas.”’
They both chuckled now but their eyes were thoughtful at a picture of a man defeated by a life that would not be allowed to happen now.
‘Tough on Winnie, though. Must feel like a kick in the teeth,’ mused Tom, watching as Grace brought the washing in and then wiped a flannel over Bobby’s face, which was sticky with toffee Betsy had made. He was asleep now on Tom’s lap and Tom kissed Grace’s arm below the elbow as she reached across.
‘Nationalisation must feel that way to him anyway. Poor old soldier and now it’ll come, thick and fast.’ Bob patted his lip with his forefinger.
Grace nodded. ‘It doesn’t seem fair somehow.’ She was folding the clothes into a neat pile, ready for ironing, then smiled at them. ‘Come on, you two, get up the allotment, the pair of you, while I do a spot of ironing and then put the bairn to bed and fix a bit to eat. You can sort out the world up there. The birds will appreciate a few crumbs of wisdom.’
Bob and Tom raised their eyebrows at one another.
‘We’ve had a better audience than this when we’ve been canvassing. Cheered I was, on the waste land,’ puffed Tom.
‘Out!’ Grace laughed.
So they linked arms, bowed and ducked the cloth that Grace aimed towards them. Tom curtailed his limping stride to fit in with Bob’s frail step as they walked up the hill. They did not hurry but nodded to Sam Walker, as they passed, before continuing in a contented silence until they reached the allotment bench, which Tom had angled in between the shed and the wall so that Bob could have a windless patch when he joined Tom here on Sundays.
The bench was warm from the sun and they leaned back against the wall. Bob filled his pipe, still with tea leaves. He had said he’d only use tobacco again when nationalisation had taken place and Tom was right glad that it looked as though it was on the way; the smell was dreadful. There were still a few hearted lettuces but the cabbages were young yet and the beans were beginning to hang heavy on the poles.
‘I suppose the government will have to buy the owners out?’
Bob nodded. ‘Yes, they’ll be offered compensation. It’ll be better than the way you once proposed. A revolution with a temporary dictatorship?’ He looked at Tom sideways.
‘Aye, and you could say the war had one and look at what was achieved.’ But he put his hands up as Bob started to argue. ‘I know, I know, I was only mithering. Wish to God the buggers would put some of their compensation into newer industries up here though, Bob. That’s always going to be the trouble in coal you know. Heavy industry is vulnerable. Even if mining is nationalised it will always be vulnerable. It’s a declining industry.’
‘I know, lad, but one thing the men’ll have to do is to have a national union, not the various groups making up
the Federation.’
Tom nodded. ‘That’ll be more work for you, Bob. Can you handle it? The campaign took it out of you.’
He looked with concern at Bob who had door-knocked and spoken on street corners alongside Tom and that had tired him enough, damn it. The man couldn’t be far off 60.
‘I’ll do a bit, lad, but what about you? Could be a great opening for you. You’d make a grand union man.’
The sun had dipped almost out of sight behind the slag but it was still light and the honeysuckle which climbed the wall to their right made the air heavy with its fragrance. A sparrow was busy where the chicken meal was kept. Tom stopped and threw a pebble towards it. As it flew off in a flurry of fear, he said, ‘No Bob. It’s time I was off out of it now. Me foot hurts, me mind goes round in circles. I want to get on with our own ideas now.’
Bob stopped sucking on his pipe and turned to look at Tom.
‘Your Annie’s not been found yet, Tom. They’ve opened a few camps, found such dreadful things. You must not be so sure of the future.’
Grace had spoken to him, asked him to make Tom consider that Annie was probably dead, try to get him to think of life without her. He patted Tom’s knee. ‘You must think in terms of yourself, not ourselves, lad.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Don’t you fret, Bob. She’ll be back. There’s a lot for us to do. Houses will be rebuilt, they’ll need decorating and it will give a great deal of work, half of it to women. She knows that. She’ll be back, I tell you.’ It was now the half-light of a summer’s evening and the birds were still swooping over the allotment and, in the honeysuckle, a finch was fluttering.
‘Georgie’s going when Japan is finished and he won’t stop until he finds her. I can’t live without her. I couldn’t work at the business unless she’s with me.’
Bob felt a cold shaft cut down through his body.
Tom tapped his arm. ‘Let’s get back, shall we? Grace will mither us for letting the food get cold.’ He took Bob’s arm as they walked out of the allotment, past the alley that led to Betsy, on down the darkening streets which could now be lit with street lamps.
After the Storm Page 43
