We'll Meet Again

by Patricia Burns

  After scouring out the toilets at Silver Sands, she went back to the farm to get Bobby off to school, feed the chickens and pigs and see that her mother was all right. Then she usually whizzed down to the site again to make sure everyone was happy and there were no complaints before pedalling over to get to whichever house she was due at by ten.

  Once there, there were no problems to be solved and the work was easy. The houses she was employed at had always been kept in tip-top condition and it was only a case of cleaning off the surface dirt and dust and doing the polishing. There were even vacuum cleaners to use that went over all the carpets in a trice and got them ten times cleaner than a stiff brush would ever do. It was all so different from the farmhouse, which had always been hard work to keep clean and was now ten times worse, with damp and salt still sweating out of the walls.

  So the part-time work was not a problem, and the money kept their heads above water. What she didn’t quite know how to deal with was Jeff Sutton. He seemed to be turning up at the site far too often.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked the first time he appeared.

  ‘Skiving off,’ he admitted, smiling disarmingly.

  Annie’s attention was only half with him. She was walking round the site, making sure everything was all right. Jeff tagged along.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ she asked.

  Jeff shrugged. ‘Oh—work. It’s such a bore.’

  ‘But won’t you be missed?’ Annie persisted. She knew all about trying to sneak a bit of time away from work before her father had noticed.

  ‘Missed? Oh, yes. Like a hole in the head.’

  Jeff’s handsome, boyish features drooped into a discontented pout. ‘They’re glad to see the back of me. I mess up everything I do. At least, that’s what my father says, and he’s the boss. He built it all up from nothing as he’s for ever telling us, so he knows best, as he’s also for ever telling us.’

  ‘It’s not easy working for your father,’ Annie said with feeling. ‘I should know. Mine—’

  ‘You’re so right,’ Jeff interrupted. His voice became conspiratorial. ‘It’s so nice to speak to someone who understands. I knew you would. It’s no use trying to explain to Mother, she never listens to a word I say. And as for Father, well, I can never do a thing right as far as he’s concerned.’

  ‘My dad was like that as well. It makes you feel sort of useless,’ Annie sympathised.

  With a jolt, she realised just how much better things were now. She was working hard, yes, but then she’d always had to work hard. She had the full weight of responsibility for providing for and looking after her mother and Bobby. She had the headache of doing all sorts of things she’d never done before at the caravan site, like writing letters and taking money and keeping accounts and advertising. She had the constant worry that Silver Sands was not going to pay its way and they were all going to be paupers. But at least she was doing it herself. If she made mistakes, there was no longer the dread of her father finding out. And the atmosphere at home was so different, even though her mother was still grieving. It was like having a lead weight taken off her spirit. Yes, the days were much better than before. It was only at night that her father came back to haunt her, pleading with her out of the swirling black water so that she woke trembling and terrified and racked with guilt.

  ‘… always been the favourite, of course. That’s the trouble with being the middle one,’ Jeff was saying.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Annie said, with no idea of what he was talking about. She glanced at her watch. ‘Heavens, look at the time! I’ll be late for my job.’

  ‘I had better let you go, then,’ Jeff said reluctantly. ‘It’s been really nice talking to you. You’re such a good listener, Annie. But then, we’ve always been good friends, haven’t we?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Annie said. She wouldn’t have said Jeff was a friend, exactly.

  ‘We could be even better friends.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Annie said.

  Which only served to encourage Jeff. He seemed to find the time to turn up at the site a couple of times a week, roaring up the track in his red MG. Today was one of those days. Annie could hear the sports car as soon as she arrived from seeing to the chickens and pigs at the farm.

  ‘Are you here again?’ she said.

  He really was a bit of a nuisance.

  ‘I just wanted to see you. I’ve got to take my horrible little brother out for a game of tennis this morning,’ Jeff explained.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Annie.

  Tennis. Now a tennis court would be a good thing to have on the site. When she had more vans, of course. Maybe the year after next.

  ‘No, it isn’t. Tim’s so spoilt. He always sulks when he loses.’

  ‘Well, it must be better than being cooped up in an office on a nice day like this.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Jeff loped after her as she greeted the holiday-makers. He was wearing tennis shorts and a white V-necked sweater. His legs were tanned and muscular.

  ‘I bet there’s some nice girls at the Tennis Club,’ Annie said.

  ‘Not as nice as you,’ Jeff answered.

  At that moment, the young mother with the smelly child waved at her. ‘He’s much better now. We’re going down the beach in a minute.’

  ‘Oh, good. Have a nice time,’ Annie responded.

  One of the other mothers came to speak to her. Still Jeff hung about.

  ‘Hadn’t you better go?’ she said to him. ‘Your brother will be waiting for you.’

  Jeff gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Oh, all right. I know my place, I’m just an unpaid nanny.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ Annie snapped. ‘Just go. I expect it’ll be fun.’

  She had better things to do than sympathise with him when he had such an easy life.

  It was only later on when she was washing some dishes that she wondered if she had heard Jeff right. She hoped not. She liked Jeff well enough, but that was as far as it went. No, he couldn’t have said it. He had all those posh girls at the Tennis Club and the Little Theatre Club and the Young Conservatives to choose from. She started drying the first draining board full of china. Would there ever be anyone for her? Probably not. Who was going to look twice at a woman with an illegitimate child in tow? She was the sort of person who was held up as an object lesson by the mothers of rebellious young girls. ‘Don’t you go staying out after half past ten with that boy, or you’ll end up like that Annie Cross.’

  She stood with her hands in the warm soapy water. End up like Annie Cross, with an illegitimate child, cleaning other people’s houses. But Annie Cross had Silver Sands. Annie Cross would show them all. And she would make sure that Bobby had more than she ever did.

  At three o’clock she set off for home. Wittlesham was bright with the last rush of summer visitors as she cycled back through the town. Families trailed about licking ice creams, girls in cotton dresses flirted with young men in open-necked shirts, pensioners sunned themselves on benches. Down on the beach, mothers in straw hats and fathers with knotted handkerchiefs on their heads sat in deckchairs knitting and reading the papers while children dug holes and made sandcastles and rushed, screaming, in and out of the waves. All along the promenade and the cliff top road, the cafés and ice cream kiosks and souvenir stalls were doing a roaring trade.

  It must be nice to have a holiday. It must be nice to go somewhere far away from your own home for a week. One day she would take Bobby and her mum and they’d go somewhere lovely and stay in a real hotel and have other people wait on them. With this happy thought in her head, she freewheeled down the slope out of town and bumped up the track to Silver Sands, where Bobby was waiting for her at the swings.

  Cutting the grass was hard work with only a hand mower. Soon, she told Bobby, they’d have a big petrol-driven one like Jeff said the Suttons had. Had Jeff really said that? she wondered. Not as nice as you. If he had, then he was just pulling her leg. She pushed
the thought out of her head.

  They rode home with Annie standing on the pedal scooting and Bobby on the saddle holding on to her shoulders and both of them squealing and laughing as they bounced over the potholes in the track. The fields on either side were white now with the gypsum that was being spread on them.

  ‘See that?’ Annie said, as they flew along. ‘Next year the grass will grow again, according to the government boffins. That white stuff will take away all the salt.’

  Should she rent out the fields then, get rid of what was left of the dairy herd and put all the money into Silver Sands? If she bought more caravans—a lot more caravans—and started using the field next to Silver Sands to put them on, then they would bring in more money than the farm ever did, even if she was buying them on the never-never. If they were fully let, that was. They’d only been fully let the six weeks of the school holidays this year. They couldn’t live on that. She still needed the cleaning jobs to keep them going.

  ‘Mum?’ Bobby’s voice was loud in her ear, his hands tight on her shoulders.

  ‘What, darling?’

  ‘It’s nice when you’re home.’

  ‘I know, darling. I’d like to stay at home with you, you know that, but I have to go and earn some money.’

  ‘Other mums stay at home.’

  ‘Yes.’

  People like Jenny and Sheila and Glenys.

  ‘It’s because I haven’t got a dad, isn’t it?’

  Oh, God. Annie’s knuckles whitened on the handlebars. She was glad she wasn’t looking him in the face. She couldn’t bear that, the hurt look he had when he spoke of his father.

  ‘You have got a dad, Bobby. He’s in America.’

  They bumped through the gate and stopped in the yard. Bobby climbed down. He mumbled something.

  ‘What?’ said Annie. ‘What was that?’ Even though she knew she wouldn’t like it when she heard it.

  Bobby looked away. His lip trembled. ‘It’s no use having a dad in America,’ he growled and ran off.

  Annie followed him slowly. She parked the bike against the barn. All the brightness had gone out of the day. Whatever she did, even if Silver Sands was a great success and she ended up very rich, Bobby would never have a proper father.

  They were nothing but trouble, men, she reflected as she walked into the house. Bobby Joe had deceived her, Jeff might well become a nuisance if he carried on saying silly things like he had this morning, and Tom—well, Tom was part of the past now. That letter he’d sent after the flood had been nice, it had shown he hadn’t forgotten her, but that was all. He had his own life up in Nottingham.

  It wasn’t till the evening, after she had finished the chores and put Bobby to bed, that Annie sat down at the kitchen table to deal with the post. There wasn’t a lot now that the season was almost at an end, just four letters. She sorted through them, then caught her breath. Tom. One was from Tom. She ripped it open.

  Dear Annie,

  I just thought I would write and ask how you are all faring after everything that happened to you in the floods. I was so sorry to hear about Gwen. She was a good friend to both of us, looking after our post as she did. You must miss her terribly.

  I’m not sure what to say about the loss of your father. What is happening to the farm now? I don’t even know if you are still there. How did your mother take it all, and how are you managing?

  You might like to know that I am helping my father run the coach company now and I have a son, Michael, who is three years old and the most wonderful little boy in the world. I expect you feel the same about your child.

  It would be really nice to hear from you, just to know how you are, but I shall understand if you would rather not reply.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tom Featherstone.

  All through that night, and on and off for days afterwards, Annie thought about the letter and tried to come to some conclusion about the meaning and the intention behind the wording. But, right from the moment of reading it, part of her knew that of one thing there was no doubt—eventually, she would write back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ‘YOU’RE home early,’ Moira said as Tom came in through the door of their small house on a freezing January day.

  ‘There’s nothing more to be seen to today. It’s always quiet for a while after Christmas,’ he said, hanging his hat on the hall stand, unwinding his scarf.

  Moira stood in the doorway through to the kitchen and watched him, her arms folded across her chest. When they were first married, she used to come hurrying to the door to meet him. Even a year or so ago she might have planted a dutiful kiss on his cheek when he came home. The vacuum was filled by Michael, who came rushing in from the back garden, his cheeks red and his knees dirty.

  ‘Daddy!’ he cried, flinging himself into Tom’s arms.

  Tom scooped him up and kissed him.

  ‘Mikey! How’s my best boy? Have you been good today?’

  The child nodded happily. ‘I been playing with David.’

  ‘That’s nice. You like David, don’t you?’

  Tom looked over the boy’s head at Moira, who was just turning away.

  ‘You’ve been round at the Butlers’, have you?’

  Moira immediately became defensive.

  ‘So what if I have? I’m entitled to some time out of the house, aren’t I?’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Tom said, perplexed by the attack. ‘I was only asking. When have I ever complained about you going to visit people?’

  ‘It’s all very well for you. You’re out all day, doing things and meeting people. I’m stuck here with no one to talk to but a four-year-old.’

  It seemed to Tom that she was out most days. There was the church Young Wives group one afternoon and a gathering of ex-Young Conservative mothers on another and in between days, like today, she visited friends or relatives or had them round for tea and cakes while the children played.

  In his arms, Michael had gone very quiet. Tom looked down at the child’s face and saw with dismay that he had gone pale and wide-eyed. Michael knew the signs. He could tell that a row was brewing.

  ‘Did you have a good game with David while the mummies were talking?’ Tom asked him.

  ‘Mummy went out. I was a good boy and didn’t cry at all,’ Michael told him.

  Tom couldn’t help looking at Moira again with a question in his face.

  Moira flushed. ‘Joan Butler minded him for ten minutes while I went to the shops. You’re not going to complain about that, I hope?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Tom said.

  He set Michael down on the floor and hung his coat on the stand.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’ll go and lay the table for Mummy while she finishes getting tea ready.’

  ‘Don’t expect anything yet. You’re so early, I’ve hardly started,’ Moira told him.

  ‘I’m only fifteen minutes early,’ Tom pointed out.

  ‘Oh, I see. I’ve got to be on time like one of your coaches now, have I?’ Moira retorted, and slammed into the kitchen.

  Tom did not make the point that it was usually Moira complaining that he was not on time and telling him that he upset her routine if he was not home on the dot to eat what she had prepared. Instead he squatted down and helped Michael undo his buttons and belt.

  ‘We’ll go and make up the fire then, shall we?’ he suggested.

  After the jollity of Christmas, he began to notice other changes. Where Moira used to encourage him to take more of the management tasks over from his father, now she was all in favour of his being out driving the coaches, especially in the evenings.

  ‘Those drivers are out for all the overtime they can get. It’s much better if you do the evening and Saturday work. I’m sure your father would appreciate it,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you didn’t like me working at weekends,’ Tom said. ‘You’re always saying how I don’t take Michael off your hands enough.’

  ‘He can always go to one of his gr
annies. And we must put business first,’ Moira told him.

  At first Tom was glad of what seemed to be a loosening of her rigid attitudes, but then odd little discrepancies occurred. When he mentioned a film, Moira corrected his understanding of a point in the plot as if she had seen it, then covered herself by saying that a friend of hers had told her all about it. One of the drivers happened to say that he had seen her in a café in town one afternoon, but Moira denied all knowledge, saying the man must have been mistaken and implying that he was a troublemaker. There was sometimes a whiff of cigarette smoke about her clothing, when neither of them smoked.

  None of this would have added up to anything much if it had not been for a far more important matter. Before they had even married, they had agreed that of course they would have two children, a boy and a girl preferably, but certainly two children. Both of them had been brought up with sisters and thought that only children missed out on a lot of the fun of family life. Michael was now four, but when Tom said he thought they ought to be thinking about having another, Moira turned the idea down flat.

  ‘Oh, I can’t be doing with all that baby stuff again,’ she stated.

  ‘But we agreed that Michael should have a brother or sister,’ Tom said. ‘And even if you fell for one almost at once, there’s going to be nearly five years between them now. That’s already a bit too much of a gap for them to play together well.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want to go through all that again—broken nights and boiling nappies and teething and all the rest,’ Moira repeated, picking at an imaginary piece of fluff on her jumper.

  ‘But—’ Tom was flabbergasted. ‘You mean—you don’t want to have any more children? Not ever?’

  ‘I didn’t say not ever, just—not yet,’ Moira said, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘But—I thought we agreed on this. We wanted Michael to have a brother or sister. We didn’t want him to be an only child.’