After the Storm (36 page)

There was a pause and then Don said slowly and clearly, his mouth thin-lipped. ‘But you’re not me brother, are you? You’re a bastard.’

Tom knew he would say it, knew that Don would throw it in his face at some stage but he did not move, just looked and said quietly:

‘I’m your brother and I’m not going to have someone come and bash your bleeding head in, so are you going to lower your rates?’

Don shook his head and they stared at one another and then Tom moved quickly but Don was quicker and the blow caught
Tom on the side of the head. Here was another, hard into the stomach and Tom felt the breath go from his body and was surprised at Don’s strength; at his speed. He stepped back quickly. It was not going to be as easy as he had thought to stop the bloody fool from meeting a few men on a dark night.

He closed and they slugged punch for punch, their breath mixed in harsh pants and the yard reeled round them as they pushed and punched from wall to wall. Tom’s lip was bleeding and he had blood on his shirt but Don’s was worse. His nose was pumping blood and Tom backed off.

‘Come away now, man. That’s enough.’ But Don came after him and the fury that was in both of them exploded and they knew nothing but darkness and blows and grunts. They went down, their arms round one another, their fists still punching into sides and backs.

Tom’s knuckles were bruised and one hand was caught between Don and the ground and he feared for his painting and reared up with his body, punching Don to the jaw, until he rolled over and then was able to snatch out his arm, then he grabbed Don’s hair and pulled him back to lie flat beneath him.

‘Lower your bloody rates will you, man,’ he shouted, his breath coming in gasps.

Don just looked at him through swollen eyes and Tom’s heart broke for this man who had always been his brother and the heat left him. He released his hair and instead gripped Don’s shoulders and shook him.

‘For God’s sake, Don lad, I don’t want you bloody killed. Can’t you see that? We care, of course we care, that’s why I’m here.’

He sighed at the blank look in Don’s face, the lack of response and he clambered off him, dusting his trousers down with hands that trembled. His legs were weak and his lip was swelling. He ran his hands through his hair and looked again at Don, then reached down with his hand. There was no movement from Don, he just looked back up at him and then, as Tom dropped his hand he raised his.

‘Give us a hand up then, lad,’ he said through lips that were swollen. His clasp was strange to Tom. He had never held Don’s hand in his before and he pulled him up, helped him back
inside to the darkness of the kitchen and his chair. Neither of them spoke and the air was loud with laboured breath as he moved to the sink and poured them both a drink and hoped to God that Annie never heard about this.

‘Don’t tell Annie about this, Tom,’ said Don, mirroring his thoughts. ‘She’d give us both hell.’ He looked at Tom and winked, if that swollen lid could wink and Tom tried to laugh but his chest hurt too much so he just slumped down in the chair and they sat for minutes in silence.

‘What’ll you do Don, lad?’

Don sat hunched forward, his hands between his knees and said nothing for a while. The fire was out now, grey and lifeless in the grate and Tom was too winded to riddle it back.

‘Since you’ve asked me so nicely, I reckon I’ll lower the interest rate.’

Don’s voice was thick and Tom smiled, then stopped. His lip was too painful.

‘And I’m right sorry about what I said,’ Don went on. ‘I get clumsy, living here. I forget about people.’ His movements were slow and painful and Tom nodded.

‘I know, it’s all right, but we didn’t want you to get hurt, see. We’re all family, aren’t we?’ They looked at one another and at their own bruises, shrugged and laughed. Tom could not remember the last time they had laughed together.

Don rose stiffly and took a towel from the fender. ‘Come here then, lad, and I’ll do your face, then you do mine. We’d best get a bit of cold on these before we both look like footballs.’ He dabbed at Tom’s lip and his cut brow, then handed the towel to Tom who did the same to him.

The afternoon turned into evening and they sat at the table, cold cloths pressed against their faces, talking of the years gone by; the horses on the moors which galloped so smoothly that you did not know you were on one, the early morning exercise, the feeling when a race was won. They talked of growing up, of Betsy who Tom had still not seen. They talked of Archie and his death, of Annie’s continuing bitterness. Of Sarah and Georgie and now Don knew and would never again talk of him as he had. They also discussed Albert and Don said he liked the old bugger and thought he could turn the business round and the old boy at the same time. It was worth a try.

He wouldn’t come to the pub with Tom.

‘Another night,’ he said as Tom opened the gate. ‘You’ll not get me involved in your crazy ideas,’ and as Tom left he called: ‘Thanks, lad, and how about you doing as Annie wants and make up with Betsy?’

Tom waved back but did not go to the pub because, as he approached from Enderby Terrace, the disaster siren rose above the town, wailed and tore through the early evening air and he ran, ran back down the street, his ribs hurting but he did not notice. He ran and the breath jogged in his chest like a knife but he knew he must keep on because it was Lutters Pit, Davy’s pit, and he could see the coal which was above him this morning piling down on top of the men, on top of soft flesh, grunting and grinding the life from them.

It had been Davy of course, it had to be him, May kept saying as they carried him back to the house much later when the bodies had been dug out. She washed him, wiping the dead blood from his ears and nose and mouth. Henry had straightened him out while Tom stood at the side of the front room watching and felt the fear and grief building up as though he were a dam. He remembered Annie screaming and shouting when her da had died and he wanted to hang back his head and do as she had done.

He turned from the house, walking at first, past the drawn windows that lined the streets like dead eyes. The town was in mourning but that wouldn’t bring him back, bring his young body back, whole and strong, bring back the light in those blank eyes that looked just like houses. He walked quicker now; he wanted to reach her, to feel her hold him, to cry and weep and have her make it better.

His boots struck sparks as he moved over the cobbles; his feet were heavy and the night seemed black as pitch but when he lifted his head it was a deep blue and the stars were out alongside the moon.

He was nearly there now and he began to run, thrusting open the yard gate, past the stable and in through the door, his hands finding the latch as though it was yesterday. And she was there, gazing into the fire, her arms plump where the sleeves had been rolled up, her hands motionless on her lap. He stood in the doorway and the tears were coming now, loud shaking sobs.
She had turned at the noise of his entrance and moved to take him in her arms.

‘Oh Mam,’ he wept. ‘Our Davy’s dead,’ and felt her hold him close and he sank into her warmth.

Tom changed gear as he roared Davy’s motorbike, which May had said he could take, up and over the hill as he left Wassingham that same night. It was midnight but he had to get to Gosforn to see Annie and tell her about Davy, tell her that things had changed now, that the future was to be different. He pushed up the goggles and wiped his cheek with his finger where the sweat and grime from the road had started to chafe the cut that he had received in his fight with Don.

The villages he rode through were dark and quiet and the hedges of the road and the fields beyond stood out black against the navy of the sky.

He thought of his mam whom he had left just a few moments ago; of the feel of her arms as she drew him into the kitchen when he was desolate and in pain. The room had been brighter somehow than he remembered and he could not think why until he noticed the patchwork cushions on the hard wooden chairs, the bright tablecloth. Even his cut-down chair had a cushion and he had been surprised that Betsy had kept it.

She had taken him across to the fire, sitting him in her chair, stroking his hair. She had heard of course but listened as he told her again and again, in short bursts. It had all come out. Davy who was so quiet and dead and black, and later there had been Annie who had gone, a mother who had given him away. It all came out, bursting and stopping then coming again and his head had lain against her body and she had held him to her, rocking him, her apron smelling of clean boiling, not the greasy staleness of the days gone by.

He had said how he had wanted to come before but could never do it and she nodded, understanding him better than he did himself. Her hair was grey now and there were lines around her eyes and down to her mouth, deep as though carved with a
chisel but the blotchiness of the booze was gone, there was no smell on her but that of baking.

She had made tea; thick and brown and they talked of Joe who was in bed and she had smiled at him as she told him of Annie’s room which was now hers. Done up with me own money, she had said, and he had reached over and taken her hands, gently because he could feel the throbbing heat of their pain.

He had asked her not to give May money for him any more because he was earning now but she had shaken her head and explained how she wanted to, needed to, because she could not forgive herself for not keeping him and Annie.

Over cheese and bread he had told her how he liked the room and she had laughed and he had no recollection of hearing that sound from her before. As he leant into the bike to take the sharp bend which meant he was halfway to Annie’s, he shook his head at the thought. But she had laughed and said that she had finished the patchwork before her fingers packed up for good.

They had talked of Davy again, so young, so much to give and he had felt lightheaded and restless, unable to sit, unable to eat and had put his plate down on the table and paced the room, touching the dresser, free of dust now, moving to the back door and looking out, up at the sky. He had heard Beauty in her stable, shuffling and stamping and had walked out into the warm night air and leant in, running his hand down her neck, stroking her soft nose.

His mam had been sitting as he had left her when he returned and asked her if she was happy. He sat at her knee on the floor with his legs crossed, his hands playing with the rag rug beneath him which was a mixture of blues and red worked into a soothing design. She nodded. The fire was hissing as a damp coal dried out and she explained that she was happy because she was her own woman now.

Is it enough for you though? he had asked. You’re a young woman still and she had laughed in a great peal that made him smile even as he remembered it and told him that 33 wasn’t young round their way and that, aye, it was enough for her since she had not known a man’s touch since his father.

Tom had said nothing but had felt the shock run through him as he thought of Archie and the years of their marriage. She had
gazed calmly into the fire, her hair neat in its bun, her floral frock spotless with its small round-edged collar.

She explained how Archie had not wanted a wife and that she was pleased now because it enabled her to remember Barney more clearly. He was a good man, your da, she had said, and had gone on to tell that he was a face-worker in the pits until the war and she would be eternally grateful that, when he’d died, he hadn’t been the same as poor Davy stuck like a rat in a trap but in the open air though it had been raining and he hadn’t liked the rain. She had stroked Tom’s hair with the back of her hand. So like him you are, she had said, and, thank God, soon there’ll be no more pit for you my lad and never another war.

She had sounded distant as though she was remembering things long gone which were still clear but only for her to see. He was a real bonny lad he was, Tom, strong but not tall; I wish you’d known him.

He had not asked her more then but he would another time because he was hungry now to know and see and feel his father. To know what he sounded like, know what he painted, what he drew because, as he had his father’s body, he would also have his talent.

As he passed the first houses of Gosforn he throttled back to quieten the bike. His arms were shaking now from the vibration and from tiredness but his mind was racing still with thoughts and feeling and decisions he must make.

Annie woke to the sound of knocking but couldn’t for a moment think what the noise meant, then she heard Val and Sarah calling.

‘Who is it? Just a moment.’ Then Sarah spoke more quietly to Val. ‘Better fetch the poker.’

Annie leapt from bed into her dressing-gown and slippers, then on down the stairs. When Sarah opened the door, Tom stood there.

His face was grimy from the road dust with white patches where his goggles had been, his lip was swollen and his cheek cut. He wore his dark jacket only and she knew he must be cold. Pushing past Sarah who stood speechless in the hallway, her hair tucked up in a net, she pulled him in, feeling the trembling in his body as he clung to her.

‘Davy’s dead,’ he said and Sarah gasped and Val moved up behind them.

‘Shut the door, Sarah,’ said Annie with one arm round Tom. She moved with him into the sitting-room as she would have done with one of the patients in the ward. ‘Can we have some tea, Val, or perhaps cocoa would be better.’

She put on the light and sat him in the chair near the fire which had been banked up for the night and still gave off a little heat. Sarah sat down looking frail suddenly, while Val disappeared into the kitchen. Annie was calm as she sat on the arm of Tom’s chair, one hand on his shoulder.

‘I’ve been to Mam’s,’ he said. ‘We talked and she helped but he was too young to die, Annie. It was that bloody pit; it had been closed too long and the maintenance had just not been done. God, if he were here now, he’d be slanging the bloody owner something shocking.’ His voice broke but there were no tears. He punched one hand to the other then winced and Annie saw his bruised knuckle.