We'll Meet Again. Patricia Burns

about your mum? Is it all right to send to your house?’ Annie asked anxiously.

      ‘I said I’m not going to let her stop me and I’m not. You write to my address,’ Tom insisted.

      Annie repeated it after him till she had fixed it in her head.

      Satisfied that they had done all they could, they talked and talked until the light had drained from the sky.

      ‘I’ve got to go,’ Annie said reluctantly.

      This was it. The last moment.

      ‘I suppose so.’

      A whole year till they saw each other again. It was so long that she could hardly bear it. Going back to life without seeing him at the end of each day was like a prison sentence.

      Awkwardly, they got up. They looked at each other in silence. Then Tom swooped forward and planted a quick kiss on her lips.

      ‘Remember—write to me!’ he said.

      ‘I will,’ Annie promised.

      And as she walked home alone with his kiss still warm upon her mouth, loneliness stalked beside her, cold and dark and bleak. She refused to let it in, pushing it away by holding on to the thought that she still had Tom as a friend, even if he was far away. It wasn’t like having him at Silver Sands, but it was something. Whatever else happened, Tom thought she was special.

      She began planning the first letter she would send to him.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      ‘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