Free Annie's Promise by Margaret Graham Page A

thank God, yet again. ‘Sausages are almost ready, the bacon’s crisp, the invoices are there.’ She nodded to the table, then laughed as his arms came round her, as his hands stroked her breasts and he said, ‘Since you don’t have to scrub my back take me straight to bed, Mrs Armstrong. The sausages can wait, the bacon can burn, the invoices don’t need checking.’
    He pushed the frying pan off the hotplate and pulled her through the door, undoing her dressing-gown, leading her up the stairs, closing their door with his heel, stripping off his clothes, removing hers. He held her, stroked her, kissed her mouth, her breasts, her thighs and she could still smell the pits on him.
    ‘I love you bonny lass, little, little Annie,’ he said as he lay on her, moving with her, kissing her eyes now, her hair. ‘I love you, I love you.’
    Though she was tired she held him, kissed him and then felt her own passion rise as it always did for this man, for his strength, his kindness, his love. Later, they lay in one another’s arms but only for a moment because Sarah must not be late for school, Annie must not be late for the rounds, so she eased herself from the bed, dressed and crept towards the door. She turned as he spoke.
    ‘Forgot to tell you, love. An order was phoned through from Fairway on Saturday, I stuck it in at the bottom of the pile – it should have been on the top, shouldn’t it?’
    ‘Next time, Georgie, I shall murder you!’ Annie blew him a kiss because this time the mistake had not been hers and so perhaps the days of carelessness were over.
    Sarah ate Georgie’s breakfast while Annie cooked another for him and packed up sandwiches and an apple for her daughter’s lunch. She pricked the sausages, turned the bacon.
    ‘D’you need another slice, Sarah?’
    ‘No thanks, Mum, but I’ll have his rind.’
    ‘No you won’t, your da likes it, you’ve got your own.’
    ‘You’re as bad as Miss Simpson. She’s mean too.’ Sarah was buttering her toast, putting on too much marmalade. Annie smiled.
    ‘Surely not like Miss Simpson, she breathes fire, doesn’t she?’
    ‘Almost. She’s been going on about the eleven plus but I don’t want to go to the Grammar, it’ll mean breaking up with Davy and …’ Sarah waved her toast at her mother, ‘and, it’ll mean all girls, I’ll get like Terry.’
    Annie put Sarah’s lunchbox into her satchel. ‘I don’t think we’d let that happen somehow.’ She checked her watch, ten more minutes before they needed to leave. She turned the sausages, grilled more bread and looked across at Sarah. ‘If you did pass, it would give you more opportunity you know, both of you. I mean Davy might want to go and if you’re spouting about not splitting up he’d maybe hold back. You’d get the bus in together and meet up afterwards.’
    Sarah was quiet as she finished her toast. Then she took Georgie’s tray from Annie and ran upstairs with it while Annie hurried with the boxes out to the car, balancing too many, but Sarah rushed out and caught them as they fell.
    ‘Well done – but go in and brush your hair, Sarah,’ she laughed, ‘and give Miss Simpson a chance and more importantly, don’t influence Davy. Let him make up his own mind.’
    She followed her daughter through to the kitchen and wiped the drainer. Then she shrugged herself into her coat, put on some lipstick and smoothed her hair. She straightened her daughter’s collar.
    ‘Are my seams straight?’ She turned her back to Sarah.
    ‘Yes, and Davy’s made up his mind anyway. He wants to go to Art College so I’m going too.’
    Annie picked up her handbag and looked carefully at Sarah, smiling gently. ‘But you might not want to do art, darling.’
    ‘I don’t, not like he does, he wants to paint designs like Uncle Tom. I want to be like you, have ideas, make them work, learn how to move a strap and make something better but I want to stay here with you for the rest of my life. I don’t