Annie's Promise (30 page)

He stuck his stick in the door when she tried to slam it, pushed it open and heaved himself into the kitchen which smelt of unboiled tea towels, standing with his back to the range, watching her as she sucked deeply on her cigarette, her shoulders hunched. She was too thin and her face was nervous.

‘Who gave you the accounts, Pat?’

‘Someone who knew what he was talking about.’

‘Who Pat? Describe him to me.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because if you don’t I’ll report you to the police too.’

Pat ground out her cigarette. ‘What for? I’ve done nothing.’

‘The paper’s a fraud. You’ll be in it too so just tell me who gave it to you.’

‘I can’t, he made me promise and he let me have this house cheap. He’s helped me a lot and I promised.’

Georgie felt the heat on his back, on his leg and the shivering slowed.

‘So where did you meet him, Pat, in Newcastle was it, where you worked before?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Just answer me.’ Georgie’s voice was quiet, firm, cold. ‘Did you meet him where you worked before? Where did you work, Pat?’

Georgie knew before she told him, somehow he knew. ‘I worked at Manners. He sacked me.’

Georgie touched her Kensitas packet with his stick. ‘Same old problem, eh? You need a job where you can smoke Pat, didn’t you ever think of that?’

Pat took another cigarette, her fingers were almost brown with nicotine. ‘Yes, I did. I went for one in an office but the boss said he could fix me up with a house and a job, if I moved. I wanted to move. Me old man knocked me about see. That boss was good to me. He gave me the accounts. He knew what you were up to, see.’

Georgie nodded. ‘Just tell me who he is, Pat.’

She wouldn’t, she drew deeply on her cigarette, once, twice, and still she wouldn’t, so Georgie described him to her, in minute detail because, in a way, he had known all along.

‘Give me your rent book, Pat,’ he demanded when she nodded at his description, his voice still cold, firm, quiet. She did and he put it in his pocket, heaved himself back out into the rain and wheeled himself home, because Annie must be told and it was she who must deal with it, not any of them, because he knew that that was what she would want.

Annie drove to Newcastle the next day, through cold and rain and there was only the swish of the wipers to keep her company, but she was glad she was alone because this must be between the two of them.

She parked, climbed the stairs, walked straight past the receptionist, past his secretary and into his office.

‘Good morning, Mr Jones,’ she said, standing in front of the desk looking at Don’s hands, tanned against the pristine white of the blotter.

She held out the accounts and a copy of the rent book, saying nothing, just watching as he glanced at them, then threw them on the desk, rotating his chair, taking out a cigar.

‘If you smoke that, I’ll ram it down your throat,’ Annie said, her voice quite calm.

He put the cigar down on the mahogany desk, steepled his hands and looked at her, and now she could see the hate that had been there all along.

‘Why, Don?’ she asked, still standing.

He didn’t answer and so she handed him another sheet of paper. This time it was the copy of a statement written by Pat in the presence of their solicitor. It contained everything she had told Georgie.

‘If you don’t tell me why, and how, this will be sent either to the newspapers or to the police, who will, of course, be aided by us in all their investigations.’

He sat looking first at her then out of the window.

‘You shouldn’t have come back and taken the house,’ he said finally. ‘Sarah Beeston gave you everything and me virtually nothing.’

Annie just looked, then said, ‘You had so much from Uncle Albert and all I had were clips round the ear and his lavatory to clean day in and day out. He loved you, he gave you everything.’

Don shrugged. ‘He had no class. Sarah had and she gave it to you and how dare you move ahead of me, and how dare you come back and move into my territory and take the house from me?’

‘Was that enough reason to try to destroy my life?’

Don steepled his hands again. ‘Yes, I rather feel it was. I wanted you back down where I had been, I wanted you all down there, with your college degrees, your nursing experience, your officer’s pips – your neat little gang, all closed up together again, leaving me outside. You never gave me a hand up, you never asked me to share your life in Gosforn. She was my relative too, you know.’

Annie watched the man and remembered the boy who had jeered at Gracie’s plumpness, who had jeered at their father, at Bet, at her, at Sarah Beeston. The young man who had sided with Albert, run his business, inherited it, sneered at Gosforn. She hadn’t known what he really wanted and he’d never said. If he had done so, Sarah would have helped him
to achieve that, not just given him money for his partnership with Uncle Albert which was what he had said he wanted. Was it just a warped justification? She didn’t care, finally she didn’t care, because now she knew that this was the man who had arranged for Pat’s brother to view the house next door, and then to complain about the pigeon loft using the name of Mr Jones.

‘So, you fixed for Tommy Mallet to do a runner. Did you share Sarah’s money with him? Val’s too?’

He shrugged. ‘He was going to leave anyway, got a nice little place abroad.’

‘And I never did sign a form, did I, there was no letter?’

Don laughed. ‘You’re so bloody thick I knew you wouldn’t remember whether you had or not.’

Annie felt no anger, there was nothing.

‘And Manners, that was you too?’

‘He was a good friend in the old days and put a number of loans my way. That little bit of business suited us both, but you’re so bloody difficult, Annie. You won’t give up but you’ll have to now.’

Annie said, ‘The consortium, that was you too, but under a different name?’

Don pursed his lips, his voice interested, objective as he replied. ‘More or less but I didn’t get the showroom in time though – you didn’t tell me about that before you did it. As I said, you’re so thick, Annie, you never twigged did you, none of you?’

Almost, thought Annie, but we just couldn’t believe it. Could anyone, of their own brother?

‘So what did you promise Pat to burn the clothes; she wouldn’t say.’

There was silence.

She looked out of the window, through the Venetian blinds, to the tall buildings and the heavy rain-sodden skies, then back at him, his thin face, his hands so carefully manicured and without any blue-stained scars.

‘Come on, Don, might as well or I shall just have to show
this little paper to people who matter.’ Annie reached for Pat’s statement, waving it backwards and forwards.

‘Well, I offered her an office job, but only if it was successful. She can go to hell now.’

Annie shook her head, looking at him as he pushed his chair back, watched him cross his legs, picking imaginary fluff off his dark suit.

‘No, I rather think she will come to you.’ She waved the paper again, even more slowly now, still watching his legs – his two legs.

‘Is that quite clear? She works for you from now on.’

She was still waving the paper, and now she felt its draught on her face. ‘Is that quite clear, Don Manon?’

He looked up at her, his lips thin with rage, his eyes narrow, but she just waited, waited. Finally he nodded.

‘Good.’ She looked out of the window again, the clouds were still heavy, grey. There would be more rain today.

‘Is that all then?’ His voice was tight.

Annie didn’t look at him. ‘More or less but I shall never forgive you as long as I live for hurting our family, for soiling Sarah’s house with your presence and her money with your dishonesty. Most of all I shall never forgive you for trying to deprive Georgie of his pigeon loft, when you had already taken his leg.’

Don frowned at this, putting up his hand. ‘No, you can’t blame me for that. I wasn’t to know.’

‘You played the game Don, you were responsible for the consequences but that doesn’t matter now. It’s happened, it’s over. You and I are over, all finished, Tom and Bet too, but I’m going to stay in this office until you write a letter to our workforce, telling them exactly how you falsified the accounts. You will write another to us explaining in detail your other activities. This will not be used against you unless anything further happens to disturb the smooth running of our business. As a family we will maintain a civilised demeanour because of the children, who need know nothing of this, but that is all.’

She held out her pen, took paper from the pile on his desk, walked to the door, called in his secretary and made her wait while Don wrote, his face red with rage.

‘Please witness this, Miss Archer,’ Annie said.

Miss Archer did, her hair falling across her face as Sarah’s had done when she had held Davy – was it only yesterday?

‘Thank you, that will be all.’ Annie watched as Miss Archer left, then picked up the pen Don had thrown on the desk. She threw it in the waste-paper basket.

‘Now, Sarah’s money you “invested”. Keep it. We don’t want it now it’s been through your hands.’ Annie saw the glint of satisfaction in his eyes but wait for it, Don, just wait, she thought. I’m not going to take money because that won’t hurt you, you have so much. You see, you need to feel pain, you need to be taught never to do this again.

Annie waited, and then said, ‘But the house is a different matter. You’re to get out – now. I shall sell it and set up a trust fund for the children. None of us wants to live there now, it’s spoiled for us. You’ll have to think up something to tell Maud, won’t you?’

Annie saw shock take the place of satisfaction, then the shock became hatred and anger and she was glad, because now her own rage and hate were stirring for this man who had dared to harm those she loved. ‘One more thing, Don. I will ruin you if you ever try anything again – and then where will you be? Not with Maud, I can assure you, she’ll move her little painted fingernails somewhere else.’

She picked up the papers, all of them, including the copy of the rent book and the accounts, and walked to the door across the deep pile carpet, wanting to be away from this man who had once been her brother.

He called out to her then. ‘What makes you think your workers will believe any of this? When people think someone’s been lying they’ll never trust them again.’

Annie didn’t turn, didn’t stop, she just opened the door and left but she knew that Don was right. There was no
guarantee that their workers would believe them, or the evidence, but at least she and her family knew the truth, at last.

Annie sat in the kitchen on Saturday morning, hearing the kettle simmering on the range, tasting the hot strong tea which she sipped from the mug Sarah had given her before she left for London – was it only a week ago? It seemed so much longer. So, she thought – 1965 and my daughter’s first letter home. She reread Sarah’s account of their first days at college, the enrolling, the queueing for stationery, for the meals in the refectory.

She smiled at Sarah’s description of the lecturer who had explained how to use the sewing machines step by step and Sarah felt unable to tell her that she’d been using one for as long as she could remember.

She’s not a bit like Brenda, Mum, tell her she’d cope with all of us with her arm tied behind her back. How’s she getting on with the new machinist?

A man showed us how to cut patterns, so when we come back, if you haven’t got a second cutter, I can help out. Next week we learn how to design. Davy is loving his foundation course, keeps telling me about dyes and fabrics. He’s keen on African dyeing or something. It’s great, Mum, really great but we’re missing you all, so much.

Annie put down the letter, smoothing it, glancing again, touching the writing, imagining Sarah in the bedsit they had
chosen in July. God, she’d forgotten how huge London was, how small her daughter and her nephew were in comparison.

‘London nowadays is very different to pre-war London,’ Tom had said as they waved them off last week. ‘I hope to God they can cope.’

Annie had echoed that again and again as they drove back from Newcastle to the factory. She smiled now, clasping the mug between both her hands. Were Sarah’s as sore as hers had been after her first experience of cutting, poor girl?

She rose, restless, lost, wishing it were a working day. She washed her mug, dried it, watched Georgie cleaning out the loft. He was restless too, missing his daughter, but at least they’d managed to find a second cutter. She leant against the sink watching Georgie turn and smile. He looked younger somehow and she knew that she did too.

She smiled at him, then checked through the minutes of the monthly meeting again. Yes, no wonder they were both looking better, they’d gone from strength to strength since she had shown the workers Don’s letter and the bonus this summer had been as good as she had promised it would be. Georgie opened the door and called through, ‘How many times have you read it now?’

‘Almost as many as you, bonny lad, but I can’t sit here any more. Let’s go and pick Bet up and take her for a run.’ Annie pushed the minutes away but tucked the letter into her pocket, grabbing her coat, throwing Georgie his and the car keys. ‘Come on or I shall get maudlin but do you really think it’s great for them, Georgie? God I hope it is.’

Sarah sat in the bedsit, looking at the books she had bought in the student shop, opening them, then shutting them again, sketching out a design, screwing it up, throwing it in the bin. She buttoned up her coat, rubbed her hands and then moved to the window, leaning her head on the pane, seeing her breath misting up the glass. It was so cold, so different, so big, so busy and she wanted to go home.

She looked across the roofs, at the lit sky. It was always
bright in London and she longed for the dark of home. It was noisy, too many cars, too many people, too many strange faces and she wanted Wassingham, its neighbours, its shops, its slag heaps. She turned to pick up a book but the tears were falling now, and she sank on to the bed. ‘Only two months, then I can go home – we can go home,’ because Davy was as lost as she.