Annie's Promise (22 page)

The workers nodded.

‘Have a look at the balance sheets, but we won’t forget fashions. Tom has a smock he’s playing around with.’

‘He hasn’t got the legs for it,’ Jean called out.

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ Annie said, passing round the balance sheets. ‘We’ll go into fashions one day, girls, don’t worry, but we must be patient, think how far we’ve come and very quickly. We must just be careful.’

Georgie felt his birds were not just bored with their loft, but cold because the wood was so rotten it was crumbling, letting in draughts. Annie told him that he must be patient because there was no way she was going out and building a loft when they were in the middle of a mail shot.

At the end of February, once another mail shot was up and running and the tour over, he said he’d have to start rubbing wintergreen on Tiger’s legs if this went on. So Annie spent her evenings with him, mapping out a new loft tight against the left-hand fence, its front facing the house, leaving space at the side for later extensions.

Annie groaned. ‘Why don’t we just move in there and let Tiger and his mates have the run of the house?’

They sawed, screwed, hammered, banged their thumbs and cursed but not seriously because there was the same excitement inside them for the pigeons too. It was all part of their lives, which were going forward.

It was fifteen feet long and seven feet deep, divided into three compartments. They made it seven feet high, covered the roof with corrugated asbestos and Annie said they needed to make their underwear out of it to keep out the wind.

‘Must keep the air moving,’ Georgie said, covering the window frame with fine-mesh wire netting.

‘Rather them than me,’ Annie said, pulling her woollen hat down over her ears.

They could only work a few hours each night and then only by the light from the kitchen and it wasn’t until the middle of March that it was finished, just as they were
starting to send out summer samples to the traders who had promised that their orders would be up on last year.

‘We’ll be increasing too,’ Georgie said as they transferred the birds into the new loft. ‘Should be some eggs in a couple of weeks but Frank says we’ve got to breed lightly as they’re late-breds. Says not to start their yearling training until July. They’re OK on the youngsters’ schedule.’

They made nesting bowls in the evening and Annie laughed as she wrote to Prue, saying that she wondered quite what she’d done with her life until pigeons came into it.

‘Sat back and eaten peeled grapes,’ Prue wrote back a few weeks later. ‘I’m glad Sarah liked the sari and the ring. Did she know that all saris should be able to go through a ring, or did she think I’d gone bonkers and sent her a large napkin?’

By the end of March the pigeons were settled and had laid eggs and an overseas buyer had written, saying that he would be arriving in Britain in the near future and would like to see them with a view to placing an order.

They drank a bottle of beer on the yard step to celebrate. Sarah and Davy had lemonade and told Annie that the Youth Club Committee were trying to win the table tennis league, but that they all really wanted a tennis court.

‘Raise funds and build it yourself,’ she said watching Georgie checking the birds, knowing that he wanted to lift them off their nests. ‘Leave them alone, poor little things. You’ve already taken one egg away and now you’re poking about.’

The yard gate opened and Don came in. ‘What’s he poking?’

Annie stopped with the glass midway to her lips. ‘Good heavens, where did you drop from?’

‘Just passing and thought I’d see how you were, didn’t know you’d built a new one. Bit grand, isn’t it?’

‘Only the best for his pigeons,’ Sarah said, getting up, sidling out, grabbing Davy, taking him with her. ‘See you later, Mum.’

Annie poured Don beer, sat with him in the weak sun and listened to tales of Teresa’s success at school, of Maud’s ambitions for her, her piano, her ballet, and it felt strange to be here, standing in a Wassingham yard, just talking with her brother. It felt good.

‘What does Teresa want to do?’ Annie asked gently, watching as Georgie weighed out the food for the birds.

‘I don’t know. What her mother wants of course.’ Don sipped his beer, took out a cigar. ‘May I?’

Annie was surprised, he didn’t usually ask. ‘Of course.’ She wanted one herself. She would have smoked old socks, anything because she still missed her cigarettes, still dreamt about them.

They sat and she breathed in his smoke, laughing at Georgie’s face as he saw her do it. They talked about his business, about cigarettes and how difficult it was to stop.

‘Try cigars,’ Don joked and Annie smiled, wanting to hug him, to keep him as he was at this moment because she hadn’t seen this Don for a very long time.

They talked about Wassingham Textiles and the Central Buyer’s order, the success of the tour, the overseas buyer.

‘He’ll be coming here, will he?’ Don asked, blowing smoke rings as she had known he would.

Annie shook her head. ‘No, we’ll have to go to him. I’ll get Tom to meet him wherever he is. Take our samples. It’ll be so good if we break into that market without having to plod round the European Trade Fairs – it just saves so much money. We hadn’t even thought of expanding abroad just yet, though we can handle it.’

She offered tea as the beer was finished but he had to go, he had people to see, cocktails to drink. Of course, Annie thought, as they waved him away, glad that he’d been, warmed by his interest, eased by his chatter – perhaps Georgie’s accident had done what nothing else could.

‘Come again,’ she called as his Jaguar purred away. ‘He was nicer than he’s been for ages,’ she called to Georgie.

‘Makes you wonder what he’s up to.’

‘For goodness sake, can’t he be nice without that sort of remark?’ Annie stood with her hands on her hips. ‘It’s her, she gets him on edge. He was perfectly pleasant then, so maybe he’s trying to reach out again.’

‘Are you going to give us a hand?’ Georgie asked, cleaning the loft. ‘And I hope you’re right, pet.’

‘I’m sure I am. He’s not a bad lad, not really. He was nice once and no way am I helping with that loft, I’m making the picnic for tomorrow.’

‘Will it work do you think, taking her?’

‘It’s got to, but I’m wearing three vests.’

The sun is as warm as it ever is in March, Annie thought, and for that they must be grateful. They’d certainly be the only fools out on the beach at this time of year but that was the idea wasn’t it, to beard the beach alone, just the three of them, so that Sarah would not say any more that she wouldn’t go to the sea because it was too childish. Annie saw Sarah’s face in the mirror, so tense, so angry and knew that it had nothing to do with childishness, but with embarrassment and the fear of seeing her father without his leg, and of others seeing it too.

‘One step at a time,’ she thought, hoping that Bernie and his family would not be late.

Annie drove along the coast road, down the track, seeing the white-capped waves rolling, fragmenting, sucking the sand back into their depths.

They struggled against the wind as they walked down to the beach, sheltering in the dunes, seeing the sand whipping, dusting, along the beach.

‘Are you sure, Annie? This early season bathing seems a bit stoic for me. We can come again.’ Georgie’s voice was low and Annie heard uncertainty as well as cold, but it was no surprise, she had known that he too needed today.

She nodded. ‘I’m coming in too, darling. Just think of that – that no woman, in the field of human …’

He groaned. ‘I thought you might just say that,’ then
raised his voice, looking across at Sarah. ‘This dune is as good as any, gives us a bit more shelter than the last. Come on, let’s get ’em off.’

He eased his trousers down over his bathing costume. Sarah watched as he unhitched his leg. She’d never seen his stump before. She’d never seen him stand like this, balancing on crutches not his stick, with that great gap there, where his leg should have been. She turned and Annie watched her do so, as did Georgie.

He nodded to her. ‘Come on then, Annie, get your clothes off, I’m getting cold hanging about for the pair of you. I’ll meet you down there.’

Tom had put a base to each of his crutches to stop them sinking into the sand and he swung himself along, feeling the cold, feeling Sarah’s eyes on his body and knew she would be feeling the same revulsion that he had felt, but knowing that she must face it, come to terms with it in all its forms. He looked either way. No others thank God, or perhaps he couldn’t have gone through with it.

Sarah watched him, swinging across the great expanse of beach, all alone. So alone. She looked either way, remembering how he’d chased them last year, how he’d played cricket, how he’d swung her up in the air on Bell’s Farm Hill.

Swing, swing, swing his leg was going now and he was so alone down there.

She turned. ‘Come on, Mum.’

‘You go on, darling.’ Annie was doing up a strap, watching Georgie nearing the sea. He couldn’t go into the water on crutches, he might fall.

‘Quickly, someone needs to be with him,’ she gasped, wrenching at her strap, the cold drawing her skin up into goose bumps, knowing she must stand and fiddle for a while longer.

Sarah looked either way again and saw another family coming down from the dunes, the children running on, then seeing Georgie, stopping. Annie saw them too. Well done, Bernie, hope the grandchildren are wrapped up well. ‘He’s
too near the sea and he’s alone,’ she called to Sarah. ‘Don’t worry about the other people. There are these accidents so often in the pit. Remember Gracie’s da?’

Sarah watched the children stare, then turn, call to the adults and point at Georgie. ‘But you never saw him without his leg, like this, did you?’ she shouted at her mother. ‘Those kids haven’t either.’

‘It’s another world now. Men like your father have a right to paddle without fear, without embarrassment.’

Sarah was still standing. Georgie was nearing the sea. He’d fall if the waves caught him. Annie ran as fast as she could, down the beach, but then Sarah passed her, her breath heaving in her chest, the sand squeezing up between her toes, slowing her, but then she reached him, held his arm, looked up into his face.

‘Don’t let the sea knock you over,’ she shouted above the noise of the surf and the wind, though what she wanted to tell him was how much she loved him, how proud she was of him, because he was about to paddle in the sea and that other man, with two legs, had a damn great coat on and two silly kids with wellingtons.

They came back to Wassingham, their skin stinging from the wind, the sand and the sea spray, their hair thick with it and Sarah was laughing and saying that they should bring the gang in the summer, then Georgie could get out really deep with them all around him, that people would scream and think he’d been bitten by a shark when he came out.

They lugged the empty picnic box through into the yard and there was a man there, in a dark suit and briefcase, measuring the pigeon loft. He turned.

Georgie said, ‘Just what’s going on? What’re you doing?’

Annie put down the picnic and stood with her hand on Sarah’s shoulder, listening as the man told them he was John Evans, from the planning office. They’d received a complaint about the height of the pigeon loft from a prospective purchaser of the property next door.

‘They claim it takes their light,’ he said. ‘It is higher than usual.’

Annie looked from Evans to the house, to the pigeon loft, then started to laugh. ‘You’ve got to be joking. This is ridiculous.’

‘I’m most certainly not joking but I do agree, it does seem ridiculous, though we’ve had stranger things happen. The thing is, you’re going to have to take it down, or lower the roof.’

Georgie touched the loft. ‘The pigeons are about to hatch out. There’s no way I’m taking this roof off. Who’s buying the bloody house? I’ll go and speak to them.’

Annie left the yard now, tried the door into next door’s yard. ‘Come here, Georgie, give me a bunk up.’

She stood by the gate, waiting, hearing him limp up to her.

‘What’re you doing, Annie?’

‘I’m going over to open the gate so that Mr Evans can see that we’re not taking anyone’s light. I’m just not having it. Now give me a bump up.’ Her voice was angry now because no one would tell her husband to lower a roof after he’d had a leg off.

Sarah came out, and Mr Evans too. ‘Oh, Mum, you’ll show your knickers.’

‘Good advertisement – they’re ours,’ Annie grunted, putting her foot in Georgie’s hands after he’d wedged himself against the wall. ‘Get over here, Mr Evans, in case he falls.’ It was not a request, but an order. Georgie was lifting her up.

‘Well, I don’t know …’

‘Get over here. There’s a man with only one leg under me.’ She looked down at Georgie and winked, he grinned.

She was up then, straddling the wall, swinging herself over, unbolting the gate, pulling Mr Evans in. She pointed to the loft. ‘Look, you can see for yourself, it takes no light from them at all.’

Mr Evans looked around, up at the sun, measured, then
smiled. ‘You’re right. Quite right. You’re quite safe – keep the loft as it is. I’ll report back.’

As he left Annie asked who it was who’d lodged the complaint. ‘A Mr Jones,’ he said.

She rang Bill at the estate agent’s. He’d shown quite a few people round, but hadn’t a Mr Jones on the list, but if he was lodging a complaint perhaps he’d used a false name – or perhaps he was a disgruntled neighbour.

‘Never a dull moment,’ she murmured to Georgie. ‘For heaven’s sake, who’d do something so petty?’ They stood outside the loft with its especially wide doors, its extra height. ‘Everyone knows you need it as it is, for God’s sake.’

Georgie was standing quietly, looking from the loft to the back alley. All their neighbours had had plenty of time to complain. The only person who’d been recently was Don – but no, not even he would do that.

The phone was ringing and Annie answered it. It was Tom. ‘Jurgen Schmidt’s been in touch. He’ll be over soon he says, and would prefer to visit our showroom since he can come via Newcastle to Edinburgh.’