After the Storm by Margaret Graham

looked at Don. ‘But what about you?’ she asked.
    He held out the leather football and grinned.
    She turned to Da, then to Betsy with a question clear in her eyes.
    ‘Your da took it as payment for a debt,’ she offered. ‘He wanted you to have something special. It’s a Shetland, that’s why he’s so small and he never was a pit pony so he’s still got good eyes.’
    ‘He’s lovely,’ Annie said burying her head in the hollow between his neck and shoulders, drinking in his musk.
    Betsy and Archie nodded as they turned. The shop should be open by now. The pony’s mane was long and coarse and Annie pulled Tom over and lifted him onto the felt saddle.
    ‘I expect I’ll look a right nellie with me legs dangling to the ground,’ she muttered. ‘But I’m right pleased with you, lass. Black Beauty, that’s what I’ll call you.’
    Don stopped bouncing his ball. ‘Don’t be so daft, she’s a he and it’s black and white.’
    ‘I’ll do what I like,’ she retorted. ‘And what’s more, I’ll sell his doing’s at the allotment for a penny a bucket. You and me’ll go into business together, Tom, how’d you like that. Will you come in too, Don?’ She looked at him.
    ‘Not bloody likely, kid’s stuff, that is.’
    But Tom grinned, ‘I’d like it right enough, Annie.’ He was glad she was with them again, but he could still see the hurt at the back of her eyes and it made him want to hug her.
    Don looked across at them and laughed, loving the seamed leather in his hands. He tossed it into the air, letting it bounce on the cobbles before he kicked it against the stable wall. Thank God the hysterics were over, he thought. She was like his ball, tough and always bouncing back.
    Annie thought, maybe it won’t matter one day, any of it and the hurt will go and let me forget.
    ‘You and me will share her, Tom,’ she whispered, leading the pony forward. It wasn’t right that Tom should have nothing – again. After all, he had lost one of his parents too, but no one ever thought of that.

CHAPTER 5
    The broom handle felt sweaty as Annie swept the corner of the kitchen, six weeks later.
    ‘You’ll knock up more dirt than you sweep away at that rate,’ complained Betsy. ‘Do it proper, girl, for God’s sake.’
    She pushed Annie to one side and took the broom.
    ‘Here, like this, see.’ She used long slow strokes. ‘Don’t slap it about.’
    The trouble is, thought Annie, you’ve got great big arms with muscles like Christmas puddings and I can hardly raise a bump. She stood behind Betsy and jacked up her arm, prodding the raised muscle. It was hard but small. The best things come in little parcels, she consoled herself.
    Betsy stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘There you are, now try and do it like that. I know your da wants to make a lady of you, but I reckon he’ll never do it with things as they are. It’s best you learn how to clean; there’s always a living there.’
    Large circles of sweat were spreading underneath her armpits and it was not just her apron but her clothes that were grubby, Annie noticed. She looked down at her old flowered dress, cut down from one that Betsy had been given, and was grateful that at least Betsy made sure she was clean. She touched her arm lightly.
    ‘It looks right good, Betsy,’ she said and took the broom from her. It was heavy and she was tired but then she was still having dreams of fat blue-veined legs and flames that leapt higher than their house in a place of awful darkness. She shook herself and brought the broom towards her slowly. She didn’t hear the knock at the door but felt the push as Don shoved past to reach the door.
    ‘You two’ve got cloth ears, I reckon,’ he said, and, as sheturned, Annie saw Betsy put the beer that she had been drinking behind her back and glare at him.
    The door had been closed to stop the dust from swirling and, as it opened, the dirt lifted and caught in her throat. She coughed but needed water to clear