We'll Meet Again. Patricia Burns

The twins, as usual, were sprawled over far more than their share of the space. The elbow of one of them was jabbing in Tom’s ribs while the foot of the other was dangerously near to his face. They both had sleeping bags made of old blankets held together with large safety pins, but neither of them seemed able to stay inside them. But at least they were still asleep. Once awake, they were liable to start their favourite game of the moment—breaking wind in unison.

      Cautiously, Tom moved his arm so that he could look at his new watch. Just gone half past six. He was wide awake now and, for the first time that holiday, filled with a sense of excitement. At last, somebody his own age to talk to, instead of being stuck in between the little kids and the grown-ups.

      Annie.

      Annie Cross.

      A girl.

      Girls were practically unknown territory to him. Since he’d been eleven, he’d been at an all boys school, and his sister was much younger than he was so her friends were just kids. Some of his friends had sisters, but they tended either to giggle and blush when he tried to speak to them, or were so adult and sophisticated that they might as well be on a different planet to him. Annie was different, though. He could talk to Annie, and she understood what he was about. And she was pretty. The artist in him appreciated her elfin face, her wide blue eyes, the wave in her fair hair, while the male wanted to reach out and touch the soft warmth of her skin.

      Tom eased himself carefully from under the old pink eiderdown until he was sitting up. Still neither of the twins stirred. He reached for his clothes, in a heap by his feet, unlaced the first two eyelets of the tent flap and wriggled out into the morning.

      The dew was still wet on the coarse grass of the wild garden, big droplets sparkling diamond-bright in the morning sunshine. A seagull wheeled across the blue sky, filling the silence with its raucous cry. Tom almost skipped as he walked barefoot across the grass to the wash house tacked on to the back of the chalet. By the time he got there, the ends of his pyjama legs were soaking and clinging to his ankles, but it was all part of the heightened pleasure of the morning.

      His mood was knocked back as he studied his face in the small mirror above the basin. His features fell so far short of the mature, smooth, immaculately groomed look of all the film stars and band leaders that he couldn’t imagine Annie being remotely interested in him. He couldn’t even shave the night’s sprinkling of stubble off his jaw since that would mean going into the chalet and risking disturbing his mother as he heated the water. Instead he resorted to what his mother referred to as ‘a lick and a promise’ of a wash and dragged on his clothes. After all, Annie wasn’t going to see him now. She wasn’t free till the evening, and even then she hadn’t promised to come. As he went over this fact, how she had hesitated and said ‘I might’, he realised how very much he wanted to see her again.

      Outside again, the heat of the sun restored his optimism. The chalet was still, so none of the grown-ups were awake, and the children slept on in their tents. Tom went out of the side gate and on to the sea wall. Usually the first thing he looked at was the sea, but today he faced the other way. Those fields belonged to Annie’s farm. The house in the distance with the collection of barns and outbuildings round it was her home. The sheep and cows … And then he spotted a herd of cows all going in one direction, with a small figure behind them. His stomach tied itself in knots. It was such a weird sensation that he felt quite sick. Annie. That had to be Annie, driving the cows along. He and she were both out in the early morning while the rest of the world was asleep.

      He waved, first one then both arms at her, but either she didn’t see him or she didn’t want to respond. Perhaps she was too busy making sure the cows were going the right way. He tried again. Still no response. He watched as she shut a gate behind them and turned away, then waved once more, not realising that he was practically jumping up and down as he did so. The distant figure stopped and, to his joy, raised an arm and waved back. He waved with all his might until she went off across the fields the way she had come. He watched her out of sight.

      That must mean that she would come and see him again that evening.

      The day seemed to go on for ever. It felt as if he were in a strange parallel existence, talking and acting as usual, yet separated from the rest of the world. He went for walks, played rounders with the children, did chores for his mother, and all the while his thoughts were centred on one thing. Annie.

      At last evening came. He escaped from the demands of family and bolted over the sea wall to wait for her. The relief of it. He didn’t have to pretend to be normal any longer.

      He knew it was no use trying to paint. Instead, he wrote her name, over and over again, in different styles. Annie Annie Annie. After a while, he gave that up and just stared between the strands of barbed wire at the sea, waiting.

      And then, just when he thought that she wasn’t coming, there was a scuffling sound behind him and there she was. Tom was at once delighted and excruciatingly embarrassed. What was he going to say to her? What could she possibly want to say to him? He felt himself going red.

      She paused at the top of the wall.

      ‘Hello,’ she said.

      ‘Hello,’ Tom managed to reply. ‘You made it, then.’

      And cursed himself for being stupid. Of course she had made it. She was here, wasn’t she?

      She didn’t seem to think it was stupid. She just nodded and scampered down the wall to join him on the strip of sand at the bottom.

      ‘He gave me extra chores to do,’ she said with a backward motion of her head. ‘I thought I was never going to get away.’

      ‘Who, your dad?’

      ‘Mmm.’

      Her face was dark and brooding.

      ‘Does he make you work hard?’

      ‘He’s a slave-driver.’

      The edge to her voice shocked him.

      ‘Don’t you like your dad?’ he asked.

      ‘I hate him.’

      She sat hugging her knees to her chest, glaring through the barbed wire. Tom felt at a loss. There were times when he hated his father, but most of the time he was all right. If pushed, he would admit that he loved him.

      ‘Why?’ was all he could think of to say.

      ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

      She picked up a stone and tossed it through the barbed wire. When she spoke again, it was cheerfully. It was as if a shadow had lifted.

      ‘Tell me all about your family, and your house and where you live. I want to know everything,’ she said.

      Glad to be back on firm ground, Tom complied.

      ‘Well, you’ve seen my mam and my sister,’ he said. ‘Mam looks after the house and us. She moans a lot about all this rationing. Our Joan’s all right, I suppose. She used to be quite sweet when she was little, but now she’s getting right bossy. And our dad, he works all hours—’ He skipped over a description of his father, because it seemed like rubbing it in that his was nice when hers wasn’t. ‘And we live in this house on the edge of Norseley. Mam says she’d like to move somewhere nicer, and Norseley’s just an ugly pit village, but Dad says we shouldn’t be ashamed of us roots. And anyway Norseley’s all right. It’s just a bit mucky, that’s all.’

      ‘I wish I could see it,’ Annie said. ‘I’ve never been anywhere. Just Brightlingsea, where Gran and Grandpa live, and once I went to Colchester.’

      Tom looked at her in amazement. Colchester was no distance. It had been the last main line town on their journey here, where they had changed on to the branch line for Wittlesham.

      ‘Where’s Brightlingsea?’ he asked.

      ‘Just down there a bit—’ She flapped a hand southwards, away from Wittlesham. ‘Tell me some more.’

      So he told her about the