Annie's Promise (13 page)

They propped until all was secure, then drank in deep gulps of cold tea because the heat and the dust were thick. Frank went under the head with his pick, turning back what he’d loosened, cursing, swearing, toiling while Georgie shovelled the coal into tubs because there was no conveyor at this old, small face. And for once he longed for the noise of the conveyor’s rumbling, or the harshness of the cutter because they filled his mind and his body, killing thought and feeling. ‘Down the bloody drain,’ he murmured, ‘Down the bloody drain.’ But he mustn’t think of it, not now, not down here. Annie had said that. ‘Don’t think of it, we’ll sort it out. Concentrate, Georgie, no need to worry, just concentrate.’

She hadn’t wanted to show him the letter until the end of the shift, but he’d seen her face when he came down, and before that he’d heard Tom’s voice, but by the time he reached the kitchen Annie was alone with the door open and a draught blowing at the ashes on the hearth. Her eyes had been guarded, her kiss intense, her hug too tight, her laugh too loud as she called him a lazy toad who probably wanted a three-course breakfast now.

Frank was easing out from beneath the head. ‘Your turn now, let’s see what you’ve remembered.’ He was panting, his
elbow had been rubbed raw, his side grazed. Georgie was glad to be handed the pick, glad to crawl beneath the coal, to lie on his side, dig the pick in, heave it out again, burrowing into the seam, panting in the heat, feeling his breath sore in his throat through thirst, not tears, straining his back, grazing his side because it kept him from thinking of her face smiling, her arms comforting him, her eyes shadowed and desperate, but not as desperate as his.

It kept him from thinking of her voice telling him it wasn’t as bad as it looked, they could start again, work on the traders, repair the damage, go further afield where their name wasn’t damaged – her voice telling him to concentrate, for God’s sake concentrate. Calling him back as he crossed the yard, begging him not to go in, stay at home, get over the shock.

They stopped for snap but he couldn’t eat. He sat back on his haunches and listened to Frank, hearing his words but thinking only of the future, which was this, nothing else. Christ, oh Christ. He thought of her eyes, her smile. What if she couldn’t cope, what if she broke down again? Why hadn’t he listened to her?

They moved on after snap.

‘Roof’s bad down at number six,’ said Frank.

‘No, it’s fine now,’ called a passing deputy.

It wasn’t fine, the floor was dirty which meant the roof was a bugger. They crouched lower ducking under the jagged outcrops, by-passing the props bent out like crooked elbows.

‘Jesus, that’d twist out soon as look,’ Frank swore. ‘Careful there, Georgie.’

Georgie didn’t reply, just nodded; looking, feeling, listening, just as Frank was doing, then calling out. ‘There’s a bad one to your left, Frank.’

It was six feet to the face conveyor but the roof was so low they had to squeeze between the motors of the two conveyors.

‘Timber up, the man said, so timber up it’ll be but we’ve drawn the short straw today, Georgie.’

Georgie nodded. He knew that already. His lamp played
on the props in the new track, all pushed out of the vertical by fifteen degrees, even the new ones. They eased along the track under four yards of unsupported roof.

‘Four broken.’

‘I can see that,’ Georgie snapped, then shook his head. ‘Sorry man, bad day.’

Frank just nodded. ‘I’d never have known it, but never mind, we all have ’em. Sometimes me birds don’t win, sometimes the squeakers die – yes, we all have ’em.’

Georgie laughed. God, if only it was a question of a couple of bloody squeakers and he felt fury rise again at Manners, at Frank, at everyone, but most of all himself – then shook his head. Concentrate, the lass had said. Concentrate – and don’t blame yourself. It’s no one’s fault, only Manners.

There were two middle sets broken too and they sawed, hammered, wedged, tightened. Georgie dug down to the solid floor to stand in the last prop, putting it side by side with the old broken one. He had to use his hands because there was no room between the props and the conveyor; he cut the prop with the tadge, set it, listening, always listening for the roof, watching for dust trickles, concentrating, always concentrating like the lady had said.

‘Got to move on down to the undercut,’ Frank grunted. ‘Bloody long shift this is, with all this bitty work.’

Georgie nodded. He didn’t want to go up now, he wanted to stay here, wedge, tighten, listen, look, hide because he didn’t know what to do any more up in the open air, in the world of high finance he’d thought he’d conquered.

They cleared the gum beneath the undercut, shovelled it on to the conveyors and the noise was kind to him, filled his head, made it ache. His hands were kind to him because they were cut and sore. They worked in the heat and the dust and the noise, stopping, drinking warm water, wiping sweat from their eyes, easing their backs, stretching their arms. Frank looked across at him and grinned, his teeth white in his black face. Georgie realised that the anger was oozing out of him along with the sweat and he smiled now
when Frank joked, nodded as he panted and talked of his squeaker.

It wouldn’t be so bad Georgie thought, spending years down here. It wouldn’t really be so bad, especially working with Frank, and he could go on the training schemes, work his way up. They could pay back the debts, they could supply distant traders, he could apologise to the local ones. Yes, perhaps after all, they could manage.

Just before the end of the shift was called they picked up their bait tins and started to walk to the paddy train, then stopped, they had no clothes. They were still in a pile down by the old face and they laughed as they trudged back down the jagged roofed roadway, crouching, wheezing, grinning in the light of their lamps, slapping one another’s arms as they finally dressed, then eased their way back for the tadge which they had also forgotten.

‘Let’s take the tub road, catch up with the paddy train further on,’ Georgie said, the laughter still in him, and hope too, because he still had his body hadn’t he, he was still a pitman wasn’t he – one who could read this old sow like a book.

They stepped over the tub rails, walking close into the walls, passing the manholes, easing back into one as a run of tubs trundled by, feeling the wind and Georgie remembered when he’d been a lad and they’d had a runner and he’d thrown himself hard back into the recess, almost cowering and had been ashamed until his father had told him that anyone who didn’t do that was a bloody idiot. ‘Bits of coal are a damn sight easier to pick up than bits of Georgie Armstrong.’

They were scrunching down an incline now, Frank ahead, his head down, his shoulders rounded. They were tired, and Georgie thought of the shower he would have and longed instead for a bath in front of the fire with Annie scrubbing his back. He would hold her when he clumped home, he would tell her how sorry he was, how he wished he’d listened. He didn’t mind the pit any more, now that he knew it was
for good, now that he’d stopped playing games with ‘the edge’, with the business.

He thought of the letter, felt the anger again, deep inside, churning, twisting, and he didn’t hear the tubs behind him, way behind him, thundering and clanging, but suddenly he felt the ground, looked up, heard Frank yelling, ‘Runner! runner!’ There was nothing but darkness ahead though, he’d lagged too far behind Frank. Where was the bloody manhole? Georgie ran, stumbling, dropping the tadge, dropping his bait-bag, looking for the manhole.

The tubs were closer, louder, his lamp beam was jogging up and down, seeking safety, trying to hear Frank’s voice above the noise, sucking all thought from his head except the need to hide because there was a bend in the track, he knew there was. How close was it? The tubs would come off – they’d come off over him.

He was running, running but they were close, so close and then there was the manhole, Frank was standing there, his light guiding him. He’d make it, thank God he’d make it.

But the leading tub leapt the track, the others smashed and spilled and there was only dust and debris and silence and Georgie thought that at last a bomb had got him, at last he’d been clumsy, that the CO would curse, Annie would cry and he wouldn’t be able to tell her that there was no pain, just a growing lapping darkness.

Annie knelt on the floor, checking through the returned underwear box by box, the tissue paper piling high around her, but there were no faults and the workmanship was excellent as she had known it would be. She also knew that there was nothing that could be done. She sat back on her heels, then leaned forward, smoothing out the tissue paper, flattening it. It could be used again. She laid piece after piece on the pile, flattening, smoothing, not thinking, just for a moment.

She heard Tom enter the kitchen, heard him come through to the hall, heard
the
heaviness of his tread and called out
quietly, ‘Don’t worry, lad, I’ll think of something. We’ll sort it out, but not today. Today, when Georgie and Sarah come in let’s all go to the sea, blow the cobwebs off, paddle, let the kids drop seaweed down our backs. We’ll leave the thinking until tomorrow – what d’you say?’

She turned. He stood so still, so white and there was no need for him to speak – she knew. The moment she saw him she knew.

There were no words either as he drove to the hospital, just agony at the slowness of the car, the length of the journey, the thought of the tubs, the coal, on top of Georgie, on top of the man she loved more than life itself.

She picked at the threads on her skirt, rolling them into balls, dropping them on the floor. Clenching her hands into fists, gritting her teeth, urging the car faster, faster. ‘They don’t know,’ Tom had said. ‘They don’t know if he’ll live.’

How could he live after tubs and coal had fallen on him? How could he live with that filth deep in his cuts? How could he live? But he must. He had to. How could he not? What did they know with all that dirt? They couldn’t know.

‘Gracie will bring Sarah, won’t she?’ Annie said, turning to Tom. ‘He’ll want to see her, he’ll want to talk to her.’

Because of course he would live. He had to live. He’d have just caught a bit of the coal. Yes, that was it. He’d just have caught a bit.

‘Course she’ll bring her straight away. The coach was due back at three.’

Annie nodded. ‘She’ll have had a good day. She likes school trips. She can tell him about it. Take him when he’s out.’

She felt Tom’s hand on her knee and gripped it, the tears coming in great gulping sobs. ‘We’ve come so far, Tom, through so much, he doesn’t deserve this. He’ll be all right, won’t he? He’s got to be all right, it’s only fair that he’s all right.’

Tom held her hand, nodding, but how could anyone be all right after they’d taken the full force of smashed runners
for God’s sake and who said there was anything fair about this bitch of a life?

Gulls were wheeling over the hospital, the light was brighter as it always was by the sea. Yes, they’d go to the sea, but not today, they’d go when he was better, when his cuts were stitched, his bruises gone. Yes, that’s when they’d go. They passed the statue of Queen Victoria looking down her nose at the lobelia – they’d laugh about it, she and Georgie.

Tom stopped the car and they ran now, shoving at the doors, leaving them to slam closed, rushing through into Emergency. A nurse directed them down a corridor, towards a bench. ‘Sit down, someone will be with you, I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’ Her apron rustled, her eyes were kind.

‘I don’t want tea. Where is he?’ Annie said, putting her hand out to the woman. ‘Please, where is he?’

‘With the doctor, Mrs Armstrong. They’ve taken him upstairs. He needs surgery but he’s in shock.’

Tom pulled her to the bench, went after the nurse, spoke to her, nodded towards Annie. The nurse smiled, spoke quietly and Tom came and sat down with her. ‘They know you nursed here now. It’ll help.’

Nothing will help, she thought. They’ve taken him straight up, he needs surgery but he’s in shock. They can’t operate until he’s out of it and so he’ll die. He’s dead. But no, don’t think those words. Don’t you dare think those words.

They sat and waited, and she breathed in the smell of disinfectant, of cleanliness, of her past, and then Frank came through from the far end and on him was the dirt of the pit, the sweat-streaked dust and in his eyes was the same look that had been in them all those years ago when he had brought Tom to her here, after he had been beaten by the Blackshirts at Olympia.

He stood in front of her and she smiled, held his hand, drew herself to her feet, smelling the pit on him, ‘You’ve seen him?’ she asked.

‘I travelled with him, Annie.’ He looked at her, then at Tom. ‘He thought a bomb had blown up. He didn’t know
where he was. “Tell her it doesn’t hurt,” he said in the ambulance.’ He was still looking at Tom.

‘How bad, Frank?’ She was standing close to him, wanting to hold his face, make him turn to her so that she could see his eyes. It was always there that you saw the truth.

‘Very bad, Annie,’ He turned now and there it was, in his eyes, and she sat down on the bench again, her hands in her lap, watching the nurses in the distance, watching the clock leap and jump the minutes, seeing the glare of the white tiles, the shine of the floor – all so clean, so very clean.

Staff Nurse called her then, holding open the swing door. ‘Sister Manon, come on through.’

‘Annie Armstrong now, Staff,’ Annie said gently as she left Tom and Frank. ‘Annie Armstrong.’ She walked with Staff past stretchers, screened examination-beds, then into the lift, up and up, then along another corridor. They stopped outside a door.

‘The doctor is with him,’ Staff said. ‘He remembers you, that’s why you’re here but also it will help your husband. He needs to hang on, somehow he needs to hang on. Talk to him, Annie. Whatever the doctors say, just keep talking to him for as long as it takes.’

Staff’s face was lined, her hair was grey at the temples. ‘I don’t know you but several do. They know what happened after Singapore too. Will you be all right?’