Annie's Promise (29 page)

She grabbed her jacket. ‘I’m going to see Brenda, this is absurd. You two man the phones until I’ve sorted it out, try and keep the lid on it, say nothing. I’ll get Gracie in from the creche, she won’t realise because Moira and Pam come in later with the kids. Georgie, you ring Bet, tell her to shut
up the showroom and get on down. If you each take an office we can try to keep things as normal as possible.’

The morning air was fresh as she walked from the car park, down street after street – the slag was churning up the heaps, as it had done for years, there was smoke coming from the chimneys as it had done for years, there were women sweeping their steps and she dug her hands deep into her pockets. This was Wassingham, this was her home – all this could be sorted out but why did things have to keep being sorted out, for God’s sake? Why did everything keep going wrong? She bunched her fists in her pockets, thinking of the idle machines, the printers, the ovens, the orders, their name for reliability. Good God, all over a stupid woman who smoked cigarettes – what was wrong with everyone?

She turned into Stanley Street, her heels clicking. She nodded to Mrs Arthern who was polishing her letterbox. The woman turned away, hostility in her eyes, and Annie slowed, faltered, put out her hand, then walked on. She would speak to Brenda, she would clear this up – she had to. These people were her friends.

The postman passed and she called, ‘Good morning.’

He said nothing but at the sound of her voice his face set just as she remembered other faces when the bosses passed by after a strike had been called and she felt lonely and wished that Georgie was with her, because she had never thought of herself as being on the other side.

She went down the back alley, hearing a dog barking, pigeons fluttering in the yards. What would they say at the club when they heard about this? But it would all be over this morning. She’d talk to Brenda, explain, though she thought she already had, and then the machine shop would hum again, and the radio would drive her mad as it always did.

She pushed open the gate, ducked in under the washing and knocked at the back door. She did not go in as she would have done yesterday, or the day before. She waited, hearing Brenda’s footsteps, her voice hushing the dog, saw the door
opening and there was no smile on Brenda’s face, just the same look that had been on Mrs Arthern’s and the postman’s.

‘So, Annie,’ she said.

Annie stood in the yard knowing she would not be invited in, knowing that others were listening in the yards on either side.

‘Brenda why? Is it the smoking? It wasn’t the kids. You know and I know the cigarettes were found in her pocket. Tom and Georgie were there.’

Brenda folded her arms. ‘But no one else was and how can we believe anything any of you say?’ Her hair was pulled back into a bun, her eyes heavy-lidded, tired, as though she’d not slept and Annie put out her hand to touch her arm, but Brenda moved away.

‘I don’t understand what you mean. How can you say you can’t believe us, what are you talking about, Brenda?’ Annie stepped back. ‘Look, what’s changed since yesterday?’

Everything, her mind replied but I don’t know why.

‘Listen to me, Brenda, you were the one who picked up the cigarette end, it was warm, Pat
had
been smoking. I know you weren’t there when we found the Kensitas but we did find them in her pocket. Our kids don’t smoke, their friends don’t smoke. We actually went along to check up on them in the evening.’ Annie dug her hands into her pockets again, seeing the hostility still there in Brenda’s eyes and not understanding why. ‘Even though we trusted them, we still checked.’

‘That’s what we should have done years ago, checked on you, but we trusted you. Next year, you kept saying. Next year the bonus will be bigger. Stick with us, grow with us, work harder and it will be all right. It’s not the money, it’s the lies you see, Annie. You can’t get away with that in Wassingham, you’re just like your brother, Annie Manon. Just like that thieving brother of yours.’

Annie jerked back at the anger in Brenda’s eyes, at the thin mouth, the words which leapt out at her.

‘Yes, just like Don. He was taught very well by that uncle
of yours, only he didn’t pretend to be doing good. He acted a bastard, we knew he was and just had to accept it and pay his bloody interest rates on the loans. But at least he was honest about being a bastard. I just don’t understand why you promised bonuses you never had any intention of paying. Why did you bloody well bother? You’ve made fools of us by cheating us and we don’t forgive that.’

Annie couldn’t grasp the words, only the tone, which was one of contempt.

‘I don’t understand, Brenda. I just don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

Brenda stepped back into the kitchen, holding the door. ‘Well, let me spell it out to you. I know you’ve cheated us, lied to us about your profits. We all know now because we’ve seen the proof and so we’d rather do without your grand Wassingham Textiles. We’ve had enough of your sort of boss to last a lifetime Annie.’

‘What proof?’ Annie said, stepping forward as Brenda began to shut the door, leaning on it, trying to stop her, shouting, ‘What proof?’

‘Go away Annie, I don’t want to talk to you ever again,’ Brenda shouted back and the door closed. Annie tried the handle and heard the key turning in the lock. She beat on the door, shouting, calling, but Brenda wouldn’t answer and so she walked back through the streets which seemed cold, empty, full of people who set their faces against her and turned their heads – and still she couldn’t understand.

Neither could Georgie and Tom, who rang Brenda but the phone was off the hook. They made coffee and Bet walked through the streets to see Brenda and Meg, but neither would open the doors, though people weren’t rude to her, just embarrassed, just sorry for her, she said when she returned, her voice distressed, her hands trembling.

All morning they answered phones, checked and packed what clothes were completed, though Tom refused to help.

‘I can’t break the strike, Annie. I can’t be a scab, not after all these years.’

‘Then go home,’ she snapped. ‘We’ve got to give them a business to come back to because they will come back.’

‘When and how?’ Tom asked, putting on his coat.

‘You try and think of a way,’ she shouted, sitting at a machine and beginning to sew. ‘While we get on with all this.’

Gracie made sandwiches at lunchtime but no one could eat, all they could do was talk but still they couldn’t understand and didn’t know what to do. In the afternoon Tom came back.

‘No one will talk to me. They don’t trust us any more and I don’t know why.’ He took off his coat, threw it over a chair and started the rotary cutter, looking at them as they sat in silence watching him. ‘You’re right, we need to make sure there’s something for them to come back to. I’m a boss now.’ And there was such sadness in his eyes that Annie could have wept.

All afternoon Annie and Gracie sewed to complete the orders which should leave today, but there was no way they could do it all and by four o’clock only half of Jones’s order was complete. At least the traders would receive theirs because nobody could forget their earlier loyalty.

They filled the van and Tom and Gracie drove it out through the gates, through the pickets who jeered and catcalled, and Annie’s breath steamed the window as she watched. She wanted to run out, grab them, shake them, make them tell her what the hell was going on, because this dream of theirs, not just hers, was going down the drain and nobody would tell them why.

She drank tea with Bet and Georgie, then sewed more slips, her fingers sore, her neck aching, her mind leaping and jumping. She stretched and looked at the clock. Four-thirty. The kids would be coming home soon. She stood, looked out. They were still there, milling, talking, leaning up against the gate post. Bernie, Meg, Geoff her husband. Did they remember the fair, the dodgems, the candy floss? Did they? Did they?

She looked at the clock again and now panic surged within her and she ran to the door, calling to Bet, ‘The kids, they don’t know. I must go, there might be trouble. Tell Georgie.’

She ran through the car park, past Meg and Bernie, shouting at them, ‘Get out of my way, I’m sick of the lot of you.’ On down the street, to the right down Sylvester Alley, left, then left again, feeling the wind cold through her cardigan but not caring, feeling her shoes rubbing. Left again. She looked at her watch. The bus would have dropped them, for Christ’s sake. She ran faster still.

Sarah stood at the bus stop, gripping her satchel, seeing the angry faces of the boys who usually lounged outside the pub, whistling and cat-calling at the girls. She heard the voices which clamoured, jostling, closing in, felt Davy’s arm around her.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he said, his voice tight. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he shouted now, putting his arm up, pushing John from Ardmore Street back, struggling to keep his feet.

What were they doing here, these roughs from the back streets, what the hell were they doing here, they should be at school? No, don’t be daft, school was over, that’s why she was here. Sarah felt herself being grabbed from behind, her hair was pulled, it brought tears to her eyes. She hit out, grabbing Simon, pushing back.

‘What’re you doing? What’re you all doing?’ Not understanding what was happening, for God’s sake. They’d been sitting in the bus, they’d jumped off, they’d walked to the corner and then this. Her satchel was grabbed and now she heard the chants of ‘Scabs, bloody scabs.’

‘Bloody crooks.’

‘Rooking me mam, that’s what you’ve been doing, all you bloody Manons.’

Sarah snatched at her satchel, held it, but it was torn from her grip again.

‘That’s ours, it’s our money that’s paid for that.’ Pat’s boy
threw the satchel over her head towards the arms raised at the back. ‘Go on, let’s share it about, like her mam said they’d do. Only they didn’t.’

Davy lunged at him, battling to reach the satchel. He was pushed back, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t hear, all she could feel was fear, deep wild fear, and then the stone was thrown and there was blood on Davy’s forehead and he was falling, crumpling and now she heard again, quite clearly, ‘Milk the profits will you.’

‘Go back to Gosforn, you grammar school pigs.’

And Sarah saw, quite clearly, the blood, so red against Davy’s shirt, and she hurled herself at Simon, beating at him with her fists, hearing the growls and shouts, feeling them pulling at her clothes, her hair, and then there were no more voices, no hands pulling at her, no voices raging, just the sound of her mother’s voice.

Sarah fell back, turned and there was her mother gripping one boy by the collar, shaking him, dragging another by the hair, shouting at the boys, ‘Go home, you silly little children. Go home and stay out of things you don’t understand. Don’t you ever lay one finger on my family again or I’ll tear the hair out of the lot of you, like I’ll do to this one.’ She jerked and the boy yowled.

She shook the other one, then let them go, no longer shouting but her face was white with rage. ‘You yobs, how dare you come here and start all this? But of course you dare, there are – what – twelve of you and two of them? Of course you dare – they’re just about the right odds for you, aren’t they, John?’ Annie pointed to one boy. ‘Oh yes, I know you and I know your father, and you too, Simon. I grew up with your mum, Nellie.’

The boys were muttering, dodging back behind their mates, leaving. ‘Yes, that’s right, disappear but I’ll remember you, and you too, Steve, Jack.’ Annie was pointing to others. ‘Your da used to give me jelly babies, Bob. Go on home and ask him what I do to little boys who push me around, or my family. Get him to tell you about Old Mooney’s rag and
bone mare. Your mother will know too, Simon.’ But Annie was only talking to their backs as they stuck their hands in their pockets and melted away into the shadows and alleys.

Sarah held Davy in her arms, there was grit digging into her knees. ‘Get up. Please get up.’ She felt her mother’s arms around her, holding her, wiping tears that she didn’t even know were falling and she felt safe and didn’t know why she was shaking, because it was all right, Mum was here. It would all be all right.

They supported Davy back to the house, passing women on their doorsteps who looked away, though not in hostility any longer but in shame, and now the rain was falling, and the blood on Davy’s forehead ran more quickly. Mrs Arthern brought the satchels back to the house, leaving them on the doorstep, saying that the boys were stupid, angry. ‘I’m sorry for what happened, though not for the strike,’ she said.

Annie shut the door because she didn’t want to speak to any of them.

Georgie wheeled his chair towards Brenda’s yard. He had no coat deliberately, just as he had the wheelchair, quite deliberately. He was not averse to evoking pity on this occasion. In fact he was banking on it and welcomed the rain which soaked him, and the shivering that had begun.

He knocked with his stick on the door. ‘Brenda. It’s Georgie. I’m wet, I can’t walk because it’s too slippery and me stump’s too chafed so I’m in me chair and I’m staying here until you open this door.’

He waited for five minutes then banged again. He waited another five and the cold was seeping through and his stump was aching, as it always did in the wet, and Brenda knew that. He waited for another five minutes, then banged again as he saw her face at the window. The door opened.

‘You fool,’ she said. ‘You’ll be ill.’

‘Then let me in,’ Georgie said, putting the brake on more firmly, putting out his hand to her. ‘Pull me up and let me in.’

Brenda stared at him and he felt the drips from his hair running down his face and knew that his trousers were soaking and dripping on to her yard. He took the hand that she offered.

They talked in the kitchen and Brenda handed him the accounts which Pat had shown to all the workers. They showed a vast profit and were false.

Georgie nodded, said nothing and left, wheeling himself to Pat’s house, knocking on her door, not wanting pity now, but trying to control his rage, heaving himself up from the chair, ignoring the shivering which had begun again.