Free After the Storm by Margaret Graham Page A

vapour entered his mouth and the tobacco was alight. He kept his hand half covering the bowl and turned to the window. He knew he needed more customers but where were they to come from. There were so many men on street corners making their woodbines last all day and not having a beer at all as they wondered when the air would be filled again with the noise of the pits, but there was no more work here than in the docks. At least the bloody war had kept the men off the streets, he had heard a vicar say to his companions as they waited to cross the road in Newcastle the other day. Makes it untidy for you does it, he had wanted to say. Should have finished a few more off, should I, while I was out there. As his hands began to tremble he clenched them between his thighs. His pipe was still gripped between his teeth but he had forgotten, he was falling back into the darkness again.
    The trouble was that he had known nothing about gas, he pleaded silently, he had just been sent along to fill a gap. But had he known about wind? He nodded to himself. There was no excuse, he had known about the wind. God damn it, everyone knew about wind. The bloody generals knew about wind. How there had to be wind.
    The shuddering in his hands was violent now and this was transmitted down the length of his legs. His pipe was cold. He had told them though, he had told H.Q. There was no wind. He had shouted it over the sound of the bombardment which preceded the attack. He was sure he remembered shouting but it had made no difference and he had obeyed the order. His eyes were open now, his head jerked back, he drew in deep breaths, he could hear again the murmur of the streets in place of the scream of shells, of men. He knew a lot about gas now.
    His hands were finally still, he was too tired now to even relight his pipe, which he placed on the desk in an exact line with the paper-knife. He heard faintly the sound of the fairorgan as the breeze blew up from the wasteland and he envied his children who lived every moment joyously. What did they know of 1924 and the way things were coming apart at the seams?
    The shadows deepened in the room and he leant over and lit the lamp, hearing heavy footsteps on the stairs and knowing that it was Albert and he was not alone, for there were lighter, quicker ones in his wake. That would be Bob Wheeler who was coming as witness. He was a good man and worked at the colliery in the office but spent most of his time on union affairs. Archie had only met him once, briefly, but had liked the man. There was an intelligent look about him.
    Albert didn’t knock, just came straight in as Archie rose. He covered his irritation by reaching for his pipe and striking a match. He waved to a chair while he relit his pipe.
    ‘Not late, am I,’ said Albert. It wasn’t a question. He was late and relished the fact, it was clear from his voice which had more than a hint of belligerence, Archie thought.
    He turned to the man who waited in the doorway while Albert slumped into a chair. He was small and wiry in a well fitting but old dark blue suit. He held his hat in one hand and smiled as he waited to be invited in.
    ‘Come in,’ said Archie, bringing another chair up to the desk. Albert grinned.
    ‘You know Mr Wheeler, don’t you, Archie? I brought him along like I said. Equal partners at last, eh, Archie!’
    Archie felt his face tighten. He nodded and turned to Mr Wheeler.
    ‘Good of you to come. Sit down, won’t you.’
    Wheeler’s handshake was firm but there was a slight tremble as he took the whisky that Archie offered. War, Archie wondered?
    He poured one for Albert.
    ‘Bit more in that, Archie, this is a celebration.’ Albert leaned forward and grinned again. His long face looked heightened with pleasure. His large body still seemed as though it had been tipped into dirty clothes but there was an air of expectancy about him, almost a lascivious pleasure.
    Archie forced himself not to visibly recoil as he poured