Читать книгу We'll Meet Again - Patricia Burns - Страница 12

‘THOSE poor people in London,’ Gwen said, as she and Annie snatched a few minutes’ conversation outside Sutton’s Bakelite before she went back in for the afternoon shift. ‘Do you know they’re sleeping down the underground now, because of the bombing? I seen it on the newsreel at the pictures. Hundreds of ‘em, all lying on the station platforms. Must be horrible.’

‘It must,’ Annie agreed, though she found it difficult to imagine what it must be like. Unlike Gwen, she had never ridden on the underground.

‘Still, the war’s all right for some. Sutton’s is expanding. Mr Sutton told us all this morning. We’re doing such a lot for the war effort, we’re moving to a bigger factory, out on the edge of town.’

‘I s’pose that means the Suttons’ll be richer than ever,’ Annie said.

‘Yeah, but who cares, eh? Would you really want to be old fattypants Beryl?’

Annie laughed. ‘No, I would not,’ she agreed.

‘Coming to the pictures tomorrow?’

‘If I can get away.’

‘You must. Oh, look, everyone’s gone in. Got to go. I’ll get my pay docked if I’m late. See you outside the Roxy.’

Annie waved goodbye and cycled off to do her errands. She sang at the top of her voice as she bowled along. At this moment, life was good. It was a dull and damp October day, the heavy old bike would soon be even heavier with a load of shopping in the front basket and at home ahead of her there was her father, but for now she was happy. She enjoyed her Thursday afternoon buying provisions and delivering some of her mother’s alteration work, and meeting Gwen was always a treat. But best of all, here in her skirt pocket, warming her thigh, was a letter from Tom.

She put her hand on her leg, feeling the outline of the envelope through the layers of clothing. It was a huge temptation to stop and tear it open, but she controlled herself. It was better if she spun it out. First the pleasure of just having the letter in her possession, then the anticipation all evening, knowing it was hidden under her mattress upstairs, then finally the delight of opening and reading it after her parents had gone to bed. Then she allowed herself a whole week of rereading and planning a reply before starting on the equal but different pleasure of writing back. The letters, together with her outings into town and meetings with Gwen, lit up the drudgery of her day-to-day life.

As she turned into the track up to the farm later that afternoon, she was surprised to see someone cycling down towards her—a man in a raincoat and trilby hat.

‘How odd,’ she said out loud.

They had hardly any visitors at the farm.

It was only when he got really close that Annie recognised him. It was Mr Sutton.

‘Evening, young—er—’ he said as they passed each other.

‘Annie,’ she told him. ‘Evening, Mr Sutton.’

She longed to ask what he was doing at Marsh Edge, but he did not show any sign of stopping.

When she went into the kitchen with the shopping, she found her mother in a fluster.

‘We’ve had a visitor. I’m so ashamed. If only I’d known, I could have at least made some scones. To have a visitor and not even be able to offer some cake! And the state of the place as well—’

‘It looks fine, Mum,’ Annie assured her.

Her mother always kept the kitchen scrupulously clean and tidy, however much mud was walked into it over the course of each day.

‘Oh, but the Suttons have such a lovely house. All modern, with a gas stove and one of those geyser things for hot water. Imagine! This must look so old-fashioned.’

‘It’s nice,’ Annie said loyally, though really she wished her mother could have modern appliances to help her. ‘But what was he doing here—Mr Sutton? I was so surprised to see him cycling down the track.’

‘Oh, I don’t know that, dear. He came to see your father. Now help me get the tea on the table, will you? Or we’re going to be late.’

They both bustled about getting the meal ready. Being late with Walter’s tea was simply not an option. When he came in they all sat round the table in silence as usual, listening to the wireless. It was only when they had finished their last cup of tea and the plates had been cleared away that Annie dared approach the mystery of their visitor.

‘I saw Mr Sutton as I was cycling up the track,’ she remarked.

It was no use asking a direct question, but an observation sometimes got a reply.

‘Ha.’

Walter got out his tobacco tin and began rolling one of the two cigarettes he allowed himself each day. Annie hurried to fetch an ashtray. Walter licked the paper, poked the protruding strands of tobacco inside with the end of a match, then lit up.

‘I sent him away with a flea in his ear,’ he said with satisfaction.

‘Did you?’ Annie said.

Edna looked mortified. Mrs Sutton’s visits for dress fittings were as much a highlight of her life as Tom’s letters were of Annie’s. She didn’t want any risk of spoiling them.

‘Thought he could palm off his unwanted bit of land on me. Must’ve taken me for a fool. But I’m not. He might have that fancy factory of his, but I know a thing or two. Oh, yes. Showed him the door, I did.’

Annie stared at him. Silver Sands! He must mean Silver Sands. That was the only bit of land that the Suttons owned, as far as she knew.

‘You mean the chalet by the sea wall?’ she hazarded.

‘‘Course. What else? Rubbish corner of scrub with a hut on it. He thought that just because it’s running with my land that I’d want it. Must be off his head. Or think I am. I soon told him his fortune.’

‘Summer visitors are nothing but a nuisance,’ Annie said sadly, quoting his often-repeated words back at him.

To have had the chance of owning Silver Sands, only to have it thrown away! It was heartbreaking.

‘Too right. Walking all over my land, leaving gates open and worrying my stock. Ought to be shot on sight,’ Walter agreed. ‘And he thought I’d be interested in holiday lettings after the war was over! I told him, flaming townies are like the plagues of Egypt. I won’t have nothing to do with ‘em.’

Walter went on for some time, telling them what he thought of holiday-makers and giving examples of the dreadful things they had done in the past. Annie just sat and made affirmative noises, her face carefully blank. It had never occurred to her in the past that there was any real possibility of their owning Silver Sands, however much she had wished it. Now it would have been even more wonderful, for Tom had said that his family were thinking of coming back next year. If her father had bought it, she could have been the one who got it ready for them and went to see if they were all right. She would have had the right to stroll in there and visit them, instead of hiding from Tom’s family. And her father had thrown that all away. She felt quite sick with disappointment. Only the thought of Tom’s letter waiting for her upstairs kept her going through the evening.

She needed the letters to get her through the following months. As autumn turned into winter and Walter Cross was forced to change his farming methods by the local War Agriculture Committee, it was Annie who bore the brunt of the extra work. One Saturday late in November, she was out cutting cabbages in the field nearest to the road. It was a foul afternoon with a wet wind coming in from the sea. The continual bending was making her back ache, the sticky mud clung to her boots, making it difficult to lift her feet and the cold was cutting into her exposed fingers and face. On top of this, she had left her mother in a flap about the Suttons. Both Mrs Sutton and Beryl were coming to order dresses for Christmas, and Edna was tying herself in knots trying to stretch the meagre sugar ration enough to bake a batch of biscuits for them.

‘The government’s giving us an extra four ounces of sugar each for Christmas,’ she said.

‘The Suttons’ll have their own. There’s no need to waste ours on them,’ Annie pointed out.

‘Oh, but I must have something to offer them,’ her mother insisted.

The thought of biscuits hot out of the oven made Annie’s mouth water as she toiled. And to think that they were going to be wasted on beastly Beryl.

She saw the Wittlesham to Brightlingsea bus stop at the end of the lane and three figures step down. Beryl’s little brother Timmy went running up the track. Beryl caught sight of her and waved and shouted.

‘Cooee! Annie!’

Annie didn’t answer. She pretended not to see as they made their way to the nice warm kitchen, leaving her labouring in the wind and rain. With a bit of luck, she would be finished by the time they came out again.

But luck was not on her side. As the Suttons came out of the farmhouse she was just on the last row, by the fence that separated the field from the track. Once more, Beryl waved.

‘Hello, Annie!’

At first Annie ignored her, but as Beryl drew level with her, she was forced to give up pretending she hadn’t heard. She straightened up.

‘Hello, Beryl.’

She knew she looked dreadful. She was cold, wet and exhausted. Her face was raw red and her ancient work clothes were spattered with mud. Beryl was warm and dry and still glowing from sitting by the range.

‘Having a nice time?’ Beryl enquired.

Annie wanted to push her face in.

‘It’s my bit for the war effort,’ she responded. ‘What’s yours?’

‘We’re knitting mufflers for soldiers at my school,’ Beryl said. ‘They’re so grateful, poor things. They send us lovely letters thanking us.’

Annie said nothing. The thought of sitting at a desk and learning things instead of cutting cabbages was almost too much to bear.

‘I came top in French these exams,’ Beryl went on. ‘Je suis très fort en Français. I bet you don’t know what that means. It means I am very strong at French. My form teacher says that all educated people should be able to speak French, and she’s a history mistress. Tu es un cochon. I bet you don’t know what that means, either. That’s the trouble with only going to the elementary. Still, I suppose you don’t even need to know how to read and write to dig potatoes.’

‘I’m doing something useful, not just sitting round all day getting fat. Our pigs can do that,’ Annie retorted.

‘And this year I’m starting Latin. I bet you don’t even know what Latin is,’ Beryl said.

‘It’s a dead language. You see stuff written in it in churches,’ Annie said in a bored voice. ‘What’s the point of learning that?’

If she’d hoped to score a point, she was disappointed.

‘Well, of course an uneducated person like you wouldn’t understand. It’s still spoken by doctors and people at universities,’ Beryl retorted.

Annie gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘And you’re going to be a doctor, are you? Pull the other one!’

‘We all know what you’re going to be—a farmhand,’ Beryl said.

Annie was actually glad when Mrs Sutton and Timmy reached them.

‘Come along, Beryl, don’t hold Annie up. I’m sure she still has plenty to do. Good day, Annie.’

‘Good day, Mrs Sutton,’ Annie muttered.

‘Bye, Annie. Have a lovely time!’ Beryl called as she walked off down the track.

Annie choked back tears of frustration and jealousy. Beryl had everything—a rich, kind father, brothers to keep her company, a place at the grammar school. It wasn’t fair.

But then she remembered. Beryl didn’t have Tom. That almost made it all worthwhile.