After the Storm (8 page)

Betsy was now looking at her with gentleness in her eyes. Annie touched her hands which were like the sausages in Fred Sharpe’s window, blotchy and glistening. How could Betsy bear to leave behind the things that she and Tom knew. The smell of blackberries as they burst, ripe segments between thumb and forefinger, the pink mice from the corner shop. Leave them behind for this. She thought of the cooking, the washing with arms deep in water again and again as she dollied and scrubbed the same clothes week after week. The house was a prison to be escaped at all cost and so was the shop with its smell of beer and a man who never looked at you as you cleared up behind him.

‘How can you bear not to be free?’ she asked looking up into her face.

She allowed Betsy to place her hands on her shoulders and pull her into an apron which smelt of bacon.

‘Nobody is free,’ she replied. ‘We all have our place and you have to make the best of it.’

Betsy was comfortable to lean into, Annie realised with surprise.

‘Come on, Annie,’ called Don through the door, his tone strident with impatience. ‘We’ll be late.’

Annie stayed. She felt that if she went now she wouldn’t quite keep this moment, wouldn’t be able to find her way back to it.

‘I said, come on.’ Don called again.

Annie pushed back from Betsy’s arms then, thrusting away the feeling that this was important, then was gone, but not before she said. ‘I’ll be different, I’ll be as free as the wind.’

Betsy stood empty, now that she had gone, but still aware of the warmth where she had been. I love her, she nodded to herself, but there never seems enough time to show her.

Archie sat in his study, arms loose and hands dangling. It was cool in spite of the heat of the day and little of the soft evening light penetrated, though the street sounds were a constant murmur and he welcomed them. There was noise but nothing
discernible, nothing he had to note or which demanded his attention. That was why he liked the prints on the far wall. Framed in mahogany they were so discoloured that the views were merged into the paper; totally indecipherable. His pipes were set in their stand, each in order. The paper-knife at right angles to the letter-rack. His chair was placed in the middle of his desk and the whisky was in the decanter; all could be reached without conscious thought.

The decanter stood out now like a jewel and he treasured it as such with a sensuality which was usually reserved for a smooth-skinned woman, but that was because Mary had given it to him. It was all that he had left of her now.

He set his lips as he turned to the invoices and went yet again over the last four years’ trading. It seemed impossible to make any headway, there simply wasn’t the money any more with the depression biting harder.

If only the war hadn’t happened. It had destroyed overseas markets for the old industries because other nations had been forced to produce their own coal and steel, and now, where could the North sell their wares?

He went over all the alternatives for his own survival again, knowing that this was what he was fighting for, not any longer his dream of middle-class status. Perhaps with a family partnership one store could keep the other afloat.

To merge with Albert went against the grain somehow, though. He took a pipe from the rack and filled it, tamping down the tobacco. He did not feel easy with the man though, for God’s sake, he was his brother. Was it unnatural he thought to dislike Albert, to feel nothing but irritation at his surliness; at the way he pressed close in order to use his larger size to intimidate?

Above all, was it normal to resent entering into a partnership of equals when he had always felt superior? His father had encouraged that of course, grooming him to run the business whilst sending Albert into one of his shops.

He should have objected then, told his father it was unfair on Albert, but he had not. He enjoyed too much the position of power and Albert had never objected, never complained. Even when they were at grammer school together and Archie had always beaten him in the exams, he had never appeared to register the fact. They had just grown up ignoring one another.
Albert was like Betsy, Archie thought, not aware of anything very much.

The irony was, of course, Archie sighed to himself, his father had groomed Albert to succeed in the world they now found themselves in whilst he was sinking rapidly. The golden boy was going under and, what’s more, he doubted if he really cared.

He struck a match and sucked until the vapour entered his mouth and the tobacco was alight. He kept his hand half covering the bowl and turned to the window. He knew he needed more customers but where were they to come from. There were so many men on street corners making their woodbines last all day and not having a beer at all as they wondered when the air would be filled again with the noise of the pits, but there was no more work here than in the docks. At least the bloody war had kept the men off the streets, he had heard a vicar say to his companions as they waited to cross the road in Newcastle the other day. Makes it untidy for you does it, he had wanted to say. Should have finished a few more off, should I, while I was out there. As his hands began to tremble he clenched them between his thighs. His pipe was still gripped between his teeth but he had forgotten, he was falling back into the darkness again.

The trouble was that he had known nothing about gas, he pleaded silently, he had just been sent along to fill a gap. But had he known about wind? He nodded to himself. There was no excuse, he had known about the wind. God damn it, everyone knew about wind. The bloody generals knew about wind. How there had to be wind.

The shuddering in his hands was violent now and this was transmitted down the length of his legs. His pipe was cold. He had told them though, he had told H.Q. There was no wind. He had shouted it over the sound of the bombardment which preceded the attack. He was sure he remembered shouting but it had made no difference and he had obeyed the order. His eyes were open now, his head jerked back, he drew in deep breaths, he could hear again the murmur of the streets in place of the scream of shells, of men. He knew a lot about gas now.

His hands were finally still, he was too tired now to even relight his pipe, which he placed on the desk in an exact line with the paper-knife. He heard faintly the sound of the fair
organ as the breeze blew up from the wasteland and he envied his children who lived every moment joyously. What did they know of 1924 and the way things were coming apart at the seams?

The shadows deepened in the room and he leant over and lit the lamp, hearing heavy footsteps on the stairs and knowing that it was Albert and he was not alone, for there were lighter, quicker ones in his wake. That would be Bob Wheeler who was coming as witness. He was a good man and worked at the colliery in the office but spent most of his time on union affairs. Archie had only met him once, briefly, but had liked the man. There was an intelligent look about him.

Albert didn’t knock, just came straight in as Archie rose. He covered his irritation by reaching for his pipe and striking a match. He waved to a chair while he relit his pipe.

‘Not late, am I,’ said Albert. It wasn’t a question. He was late and relished the fact, it was clear from his voice which had more than a hint of belligerence, Archie thought.

He turned to the man who waited in the doorway while Albert slumped into a chair. He was small and wiry in a well fitting but old dark blue suit. He held his hat in one hand and smiled as he waited to be invited in.

‘Come in,’ said Archie, bringing another chair up to the desk. Albert grinned.

‘You know Mr Wheeler, don’t you, Archie? I brought him along like I said. Equal partners at last, eh, Archie!’

Archie felt his face tighten. He nodded and turned to Mr Wheeler.

‘Good of you to come. Sit down, won’t you.’

Wheeler’s handshake was firm but there was a slight tremble as he took the whisky that Archie offered. War, Archie wondered?

He poured one for Albert.

‘Bit more in that, Archie, this is a celebration.’ Albert leaned forward and grinned again. His long face looked heightened with pleasure. His large body still seemed as though it had been tipped into dirty clothes but there was an air of expectancy about him, almost a lascivious pleasure.

Archie forced himself not to visibly recoil as he poured more Scotch into his glass and listened to Albert.

‘Wonder what the old man would think of this then. You and
me equals. He’d turn in his grave and I don’t see you laughing all over your face either Archie, me lad.’

Archie was surprised. So, he thought, I’ve underestimated you, all these years have I, and now the question is, how deep is the grudge, for he felt sure that there would be one. He felt curiously detached; not worried, not frightened since there was little anyone could do to hurt him any more. He just felt surprised. He watched as Albert settled himself back in his chair, his shirt open at the neck, his chest hairs crawling up his neck. He really did despise the man. He turned to hide his eyes.

‘Let me take your hat,’ he suggested to Mr Wheeler but he refused.

‘Call me Bob,’ he said to Archie.

‘Right we will then, Bob,’ Albert said, annoyed by this instant familiarity, knowing that Wheeler had for two years preferred to stay on formal terms with him. ‘Let’s have another drink then, Archie.’

There was sweat on his upper lip; this was not his first drink of the day, thought Archie, but then it isn’t mine either. He poured another for Albert but Bob had drunk hardly any yet. Archie noticed the tremble of his hand as he took another sip. It must be the war, he thought again.

But it was not the war, though Wheeler had been through that too. It was merely a family trait passed down from father to son along with all the other failings Bob Wheeler’s mother had listed on many occasions, always with a smile. Wheeler’s father would snort in reply and his son grin. His mother knew really that the hours spent discussing the latest leader in the newspaper were not wasted. After all, it had helped Bob to form an articulate argument.

Together they read under the dim light of the oil lamp in the cold front room of the small house, well away from the airing washing and the endless mashed tea. His mother might have swiped at his head with a towel when he was too lost in thought to shift himself to help her but it was as much her wish as his da’s that their son, Bob Wheeler, should get some learning under his belt and go into the offices of the colliery not the darkness of below ground which had stifled his father’s urge to improve their lot, and the lot of their fellow workers. He had been too physically broken within a few short years but from those offices they knew that their son would keep a clear head
and a vision beyond the blank coal-face. Bob Wheeler frequently thought, though, that vision was one thing and progress quite another, for how could you get blood out of a stone? It was satisfying trying nonetheless.

And that was it, he was completely satisfied with his work to the extent that he never missed not having a wife or family of his own, even now with his parents dead. His mother had died of flu the doctor said, but Bob felt it was a broken heart after his father had died of black spit. What he did miss, though, were his conversations with his father and he wondered whether this man, Archie Manon, might prove to be something of a substitute. He looked as though he saw beyond the confines of the Wassingham streets.

‘Business any better with Ramsay in power?’ Bob Wheeler asked.

Archie stirred, about to speak but it was Albert who replied. ‘Business would have been better if the mines had stayed under the eyes of the government,’ he grunted, settling himself back in his chair. ‘Bloody stupid handing them back to the owners with exports down. The wages come down and that makes my business difficult.’ He pointed to Archie. ‘We were saying as we came along that the owners did all right out of the war, not like the rest of us.’

Bob Wheeler caught Archie’s eye and they exchanged nods.

‘Where are these papers then?’ Bob asked, and took them from Archie as he passed them over. ‘Shall I stick my name under both of yours as witness? Is that the idea?’

‘If you don’t mind,’ Archie pointed to the area with his finger. ‘The owners have iron and steel interests as well, I think you’ll find, Albert. They sell cheap to the plants and get even better profits from their iron companies as well as exploiting the miners. What do you think Bob?’

Bob twisted his pen round and round, his long face thoughtful. His hair which was greying at the temples had receded slightly giving him a broad forehead and an elderly air but Archie guessed that they were much the same age, about 40. His brown eyes matched exactly the colour of his hair but his moustache was more red than brown.

‘I think you’re right Archie.’

‘How come the South is getting all the new industries? After all the unions supported Ramsay’s campaign and most of the
strong union men are up here. Why can’t the chemicals and radios come North for a change?’ Albert slapped the table. Scotch had spilt down his chin.

Archie had to admit to himself that Albert had a good point. Chemicals had come on greatly during and since the war and there was talk of the small companies merging to form Imperial Chemical Industries to make them more efficient but that would not take place up here, there was no doubt about that. If only they had brought the car industry up North. The steel works were up here after all and so were the men. It was crazy.

‘I know why,’ Albert cackled and answered his own question. ‘They’re afraid our lad’s will get to like the feel of clean hands and light work, then they’d have no bloody coal or steel at all.’

His face was very red, his eyes now bloodshot and ugly. He breathed Scotch across the table at Archie. ‘Ain’t that right Archie? But then you never liked dirty hands did you? Had to keep ’em clean up in that hoity-toity office at the top of the heap. Didn’t matter that I got mine dirty in that poky little shop, did it?’

He was beginning to slur his words and Archie felt his face flush with embarrassment at the scene that was developing. Embarrassment and guilt because it hadn’t mattered to him that Albert got his hand’s dirty, but for God’s sake, he was not his brother’s keeper.