After the Storm by Margaret Graham Page B

houses which fronted directly on to the cobbled streets.
    ‘Mind your head on the cage, Tom,’ Annie shouted, and he ducked beneath the canary which Old Man Renton had put out to hang above his door. It was singing, though it stayed in the shade of the cover which was half over the cage.
    ‘It must be grand for the birds not to have to go down in the pits any more,’ said Tom. ‘Do they miss it, do you think?’
    ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Annie suddenly oppressed by the houses which seemed to press in on her, to trap her in the heat and dust, to make everything seem dark. The coal-dust covered the bricks and the cobbles, bringing gloom with it.
    It was a relief to reach the wasteland with its space and grass-hillocked ground. Grace’s uncle tethered his goats here, but there was only one today.
    ‘Did the others go into the allotments once too often then and eat the prize marrows?’ Tom asked, shifting in the saddle to look around. The clip of Beauty’s hooves had changed to a soft thud as they crossed towards the lane which led through the trees to the meadow and then the beck. It was still some way off and shimmered in the heat.
    Grace shook her head. ‘Not this time, Tom. Me uncle’s been laid off an’ all. They’ve sold off the billies for meat. They need the nanny to feed the bairn. Me aunty’s gone dry.’
    ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘the billies don’t half pong.’
    Annie grimaced at the memory. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I used to kick the ball up here with Don before he had his good one. If there was a wind …’
    ‘And I always thought that was you, Annie,’ chipped in Tom.
    They laughed and let Beauty stop to crop at the grass. The noise of tearing grass and clinking bit added to Annie’s growing sense of freedom. She turned to look back at the streets they had left, cut off from the world as though someone had sliced through them with a knife.
    ‘You’d have thought someone would have curved ’em round a bit, or dotted a few to make it look nice, not just plonked ’em here.’
    ‘It’s to do with the owners of the pits, I reckon,’ Grace said. They both looked round as they heard Don and Georgie call them from far ahead, then returned to looking at the town.
    ‘They just stopped building when the miners had enough houses,’ Grace continued. ‘They didn’t care what it looked like, didn’t think the likes of us needed anything nice.’
    The older boys were racing back towards them and Don panted up to Annie. He stopped and caught his breath.
    ‘That stupid pony’s supposed to make it quicker,’ he gasped,and began to bounce the ball at Annie’s feet. The dry earth flew over her sandals. She kicked it away and as he scrambled after it, Tom said:
    ‘No, she’s supposed to make it better, and she does, Don.’
    Don scooped the ball up, flicking it underarm to Georgie who fielded it with his hand and then dribbled it away from the others.
    Don strolled back until he reached the pony, then glared at Tom. ‘I’ve told you two that it’s a boy, a bloody boy.’ His thin face was screwed up.
    Annie pulled up Beauty’s head, clicking with her tongue to move on. ‘She’s what we want her to be and so she’s a girl.’ They were moving forward now at a leisurely pace. She tilted her chin and looked at him sideways. ‘Anyway, clever clogs, tell us why they just stop the houses like that?’ She waved her hand towards them.
    Don turned back to look. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
    ‘They just stop,’ Grace said, ‘that’s what we’re talking about.’
    Tom was standing up in the stirrups to look, wobbling in time with Beauty’s stride. ‘They’re so ugly. Someone’s just dumped them there, in the middle of nowhere.’
    Georgie was walking with them now. ‘It’s on top of a seam of coal and that ain’t nowhere to the bosses,’ he said softly. ‘They’d get the workers here by giving them a roof, then the poor sods couldn’t leave