Free Annie's Promise by Margaret Graham

right from the start. She stopped and wrote a reminder to ask Gracie to stack her garments into dozens, it would mean one less job for her.
    Now she cut out the work for tomorrow and shrugged aside the ache in hands swollen from using the scissors too much. What did banana fingers matter just so long as the work was done – pain was nothing, it would pass but there were tears in her eyes after half an hour.
    For a further hour she sewed samples of their bras, of the new pants because she had decided she must tour the Madam shops again. She wouldn’t ring in advance this time, she’d just go. She sewed more aprons and gloves because she’d noticed two new kitchen and craft shops setting up on her way back from Gosforn market last week and she’d call in on them too. She’d do Durham, Newcastle, all the towns.
    She needed to sound out Brenda Watson down Edmore Street again, make sure she’d really be available to help her train up the homeworkers if they got the big ones. No, not if,
once
they got the orders.
    Tom and Georgie had talked to the men, they’d got four reliable wives picked out as homeworkers but how long would they wait, they might go and get other jobs.
    ‘No, there
are
no other jobs, you idiot woman, that’s why we’re here.’ Annie leant her head forward on her throbbing hands. Her back was stiff, her feet were cold, her lids were heavy.
    She packed up the samples, checked through her list of calls, checked off the quantities against the orders – still needed twenty-four more vests and … she checked through the orders again, yes, there was an order for four dozen pants. It was for Fairway Market – how had she missed that? Gracieand she could have done them on Sunday. She gripped the chair. They were to be delivered tomorrow.
    ‘For God’s sake, we can’t afford to be so careless,’ she groaned and looked at the clock again, it was so late, she was too cold, too tired but then she shook herself. ‘Get on with it.’
    She went through to the kitchen, stoked the range, brewed tea, smoked a cigarette, stood in the open door looking out into the yard, there were no spent rockets and so she flicked her cigarette across the yard, watching it arc in the cold November air, watching it smoulder and die – ‘Good as a rocket any day, Annie Armstrong, now sort it out.’
    She drank her tea, curling her hands around the mug, ignoring the throbbing, wondering how many pants would be returned from the other stalls? Could she bank on twenty perhaps as part of the four dozen, but no, what if they’d sold the lot? She rinsed her mug, then cut and sewed the full forty-eight, checked and packed them, and the twenty-four vests.
    If she had any returns she’d have to put them back into stock and sell those on at the next trader. She checked her route. Yes, she could do Fairway and still be back for Sarah because she stayed for piano until four.
    Annie checked the clock again, her mind a blank, her eyelids heavy, she rubbed her eyes. Georgie would be in at half past six, she’d give him breakfast and finish packing before Sarah got up, but then she saw the invoices. She had to do those so that Georgie could look at them before she left. She insisted that all paperwork was checked because she was unable to trust herself. Maybe all orders should be too, but no, everyone had enough to do, she’d just make sure she checked through each evening.
    Her hands were shaking as she wrote but then they were all exhausted. Tomorrow she must tell Gracie that they had to produce more than they were doing so that they could build up a reserve to call on, rather than going from hand to mouth like this. Could Gracie produce more? She’d haveto, even though she had the two children. Could they work harder without telling Betsy otherwise she’d insist on doing more, which would only mean more unpicking? Annie slept for an hour.
    The bacon was crisping and the sausages spitting as Georgie came through the door – safe,