We'll Meet Again. Patricia Burns

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.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      THROUGH the long hard winter of 1940 to 1941, the people of the industrial cities and ports of Britain suffered the terrors of the blitz while the bombers of the RAF carried out Churchill’s promise to ‘give it them back’. Stray bombs and damaged aircraft crashed into fields and villages and towns, and even the quietest village had its German spy scare. The convoys crossing the Atlantic were harried by submarines, making scarce commodities even scarcer. Britons tightened their belts, worked harder and ate more frugally. But they did not think of giving in.

      Annie laboured through the cold days, learning how to work farm machinery from the pool of modern devices now available on loan to farmers, on top of carrying on with the day-to-day work of running a dairy herd. Harder than either of these was keeping on the right side of her father. Praise, or even recognition of the huge part she played in the increased productivity of the farm, was out of the question. But when Walter was in a neutral mood, he did allow her the odd evening off. They were occasions to be savoured to the full.

      An April Thursday saw her hurrying to meet Gwen outside the Roxy in the High Street. Gwen squealed when she spotted her and rushed to take hold of her arm.

      ‘You’re so late! I thought you weren’t coming.’

      The two girls trotted arm in arm up the steps of the cinema.

      ‘I know, I’m sorry. The bus was ever so late, and when it did come it was an awful old thing. I think they’ve sent all their decent ones up to London,’ Annie explained.

      ‘We need buses just as much as Londoners do,’ Gwen grumbled.

      They pushed in through the swing doors. Annie paused for a moment, looking around, making sure it was all just as grand as ever. She breathed deeply, taking in the smell of smoke and wet coats and the faint whiff of disinfectant. Yes, this was it. This was Life. Even in the dim wartime lighting, the entrance looked like a palace with its high ceilings, red flock walls, gold paintwork and shiny brass rails. Wonderful. It was like living in a fairy tale after the wet fields and the austere farmhouse.