After the Storm
Page 47
There was no barbed wire along the miles of beach and Tom walked with her along the track that she and Georgie had once cycled down, beating against the wind. It still roared and blustered and she gripped Tom’s arm and he held his cap on with his other hand. When the sand met the foreshore she left him and lifted her head into the North-East bite, letting it whip past and round her.
Down through the sand she walked, pulling free as it clutched at her shoes and ran in over the sides. She removed them and felt the sand beneath her feet, felt it run over her as she dug in and took another stride. It was white as far as the eye could see as it had never been in those days of her childhood.
It was cool, so cool and the sky was full of battling clouds and the sea full of buffeting waves which arched, hung, then crashed frothing before sliding back into oblivion with just a few surf remnants fast bursting on the sand. The wind tore at her hair and the gulls screeched but, beyond them, all she could still hear was the crashing sucking waves. She was home now and there was no anger left in her at da and there was no need for the box ever again. He could stay inside her with the good memories, with Beauty and Peter Pan. He had only wanted peace and she could admit that she knew all about that now. She had tasted the sour pills and the noise and shapes of horrors she could not escape until now. He was not to blame any more.
She sat down near the sea where the sand was not yet wet from the incoming tide. The years had passed quickly but now she allowed herself time to remember every moment tracing her way back from that misty evening to the salt wind of today.
At length she saw that the sky was darkening and the wind began tearing at her body, plucking at her hair and snatching it across her face, stinging her with sand. Her back was stiff and her hands were numb with the lost minutes, or was it hours, that had passed.
The wind lifted her hair again. You’re lucky, she thought. That’s all you carry isn’t it, sand and the scent of brine. We have to carry everything that touches us and sometimes it is too heavy. She picked up a pebble and threw it hard across the waves but it was caught by a crest and dragged under, and now she was shouting to the wind: ‘I’m glad, at last I’m glad that I have something more to carry than grains of sand and the smell of salt.’
She looked round at the hollow curves of the dunes which lay behind her. Memories can be good, Georgie had said and he was right. The wind tugged at her cuffs as she lifted her hands to her hair which was tangled and sticky. She tucked away the flaying strands.
He had stroked her body, but left her whole. He had let her go with Sarah, let her return to England. It was all so simple really but she had not allowed herself to see it; all these years it had been hidden behind dark shadows. She could trust him. For God’s sake, she could trust him and love him safely.
She wanted to hurry now and the wind was behind her as she turned and ran back through the sand. It helped her now, pushing back towards Tom. She ran and her breath was struggling in her chest and her legs were thrusting into the dunes and then Tom was there, helping her, pulling her along. The time for peace was over, there was so much to do, but first she needed Georgie.
The Post Office was closed when they reached it but that didn’t matter; she would break the door down if she had to.
Tom watched as she beat on the door. It was almost dark and lights shone out into the street from the surrounding houses. He was smiling and seeing again the lass who shared out pies. The lights came on in the shop and Mrs Norris opened the door.
‘We’re closed,’ she said.
Annie looked at her. ‘I’ve just come home from the war. I’ve watched my friend have her head cut off. My husband is still in India defusing bombs. I need to send him a telegram. Are you still shut?’ Her voice was fierce. Annie Manon was back, Tom knew that now.
The woman sighed and stood aside, tugging at her grey cardigan which was done up on the wrong buttons so that one side hung below the other. ‘Get yourself in then. I’ll find you a form and then a cup of tea. I know you now, Annie Manon. So like your da you are.’ Her smile was kind now. She shuffled back behind the counter and Annie grinned at Tom.
‘Aye, maybe I am, but I’m Annie Armstrong now.’
Mrs Norris was reaching down into the cupboard behind the counter.
‘I know I have some somewhere,’ she mumbled.
Annie looked round, tapping her foot, wondering why everything was so slow. She was in a hurry, didn’t anyone understand? She looked at the brown wrapping-paper that stood in rolls in the wooden bin to one side of the shop, at the birthday cards that were stacked in the rack to the left of the door, at Tom who was still grinning.
‘Hold your bleeding horses, Annie,’ he whispered. ‘He’ll wait until she finds the form, don’t you fret. Then we can begin again, all of us.’ As she stood there she heard the clink of lead coins, the boy who took her hand, smelt the sun-sweated leeks, saw the red flowers of the setting beans.
In the heat of the midday sun, Georgie opened the telegram which Prue had brought him. His hands were shaking so much that he could barely read the words.
The wallpaper business is safer than bombs Stop I love you darling Stop You never did teach me how to swing from the bar Stop Come home my love and show me Stop Annie
Prue held him as he cried and she smiled. He would be in England soon and not long after she would too with Dick Sanders.
It was time the British went home.
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Copyright © Margaret Graham 1988
Margaret Graham has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. Apart from references to actual figures and places, all other names and characters are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First published in Great Britain in 1988 by William Heinemann Ltd as Only the Wind is Free
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