We'll Meet Again
Annie Cross has few pleasures in her tough life. On the bleak family farm on the Essex marshlands, she slaves all day for her cruel father. The one thing that keeps her going is her secret meetings with Tom Featherstone.But War steals Tom from her when he joins the RAF. Annie would love to do her bit but stuck on the farm, she lives for Tom's letters – until they stop coming.When, against the odds, her beloved Tom returns, he finds a different, stronger Annie to the one he left behind. But he also finds the girl he loved is carrying another man's child…Other books by Patricia BurnsBye Bye LoveFollow Your Dream
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PATRICIA BURNS is an Essex girl born and bred and proud of it. She spent her childhood messing about in boats, then tried a number of jobs before training to be a teacher. She married and had three children, all of whom are now grown up, and she recently became a grandmother. She is now married for the second time and is doing all the things she never had time for earlier in life.
When not busy writing, Patricia enjoys travelling and socialising, walking in the countryside round the village where she now lives, belly dancing and making exotic costumes to dance in.
Find out more about Patricia at www.mirabooks.co.uk/patriciaburns
To Dorothy Lumley,
who never stopped believing in this book
Contents
January 1953
IT SEEMED to be a day like any other. Windy, certainly, but at Marsh Edge Farm they were used to almost constant wind, exposed as they were. It swept over the Essex flatlands with increasing power that day, the last day of January in the year of the new Queen’s coronation. It came howling across the low grasslands that had once been part of the sea, raced over the snaking sea wall and buffeted the grey North Sea into angry white-topped waves.
It whipped the skirts of Annie Cross’s old grey mac round her frozen legs as she brought the dairy cows in for evening milking. She pulled her muffler more snugly round her neck and looked round anxiously at her small son. Bobby was plodding behind the last animal, stick in hand, the clinging mud nearly to the top of his wellingtons. His small face was pinched and his nose was streaming. In the gap between his raincoat and his boots, his bare knees were bright red with cold. Annie forced an encouraging smile.
‘Nearly there, darling! Grandma’s making us some scones for tea. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’
Bobby nodded and sneezed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Annie’s heart contracted. He shouldn’t be out here in the wind and the cold. He should be indoors in front of the kitchen range, being cosseted by his grandma. But cosseting was out of the question at Marsh Edge Farm.
Her father was waiting for them in the yard. A small man, Walter Cross watched their arrival from beneath the peak of his cloth cap, his eyes hard in his narrow face.
‘You took your time. What’s the matter with you? Having a holiday?’
Annie shook her head. It wasn’t a question that required answering.
‘You’ll have to do the milking. I still haven’t got that blasted tractor to work. Don’t know what you’ve gone and done to it,’ her father said.
‘Right,’ Annie said.
It was no use pointing out that the tractor had failed while he’d been driving it. After all, everything that went wrong round here was her fault. Hers or Bobby’s.
‘And make sure that brat of yours helps. Cold, indeed! I never heard the like. Never got colds in my day. Get the little bastard working. That’ll soon cure him.’
Walter glared in the direction of the child, who stood in the yard entrance, his frightened eyes flicking from his mother to his grandfather. Walter grunted.
‘Bad blood,’ he muttered.
Annie’s self-control snapped. ‘He’s your grandson!’
Her father’s mouth stretched into a grim smile. He had provoked her. Satisfied, he turned to trudge across the yard to where the tractor stood under an open-sided shelter.
‘Make sure it’s all scrubbed down proper after. No skiving off early. I’ll be checking to see you’ve done it right, mind,’ he warned over his shoulder.
Annie said nothing. Walter stopped and slowly looked back at her. Behind her, Annie heard Bobby give a small whimper of fear.
‘You heard what I said?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘Good.’
His absolute authority assured, Walter walked on.
‘Pig,’ Annie muttered under her breath. ‘Bully. Schweinhund.’
She had learnt that one from the pictures. It gave her particular pleasure. She repeated it with as guttural a German accent as she could manage.
At least the milking was inside. Annie and Bobby went about the well-worn routine—feeding, washing udders, fixing on the cups. Without Walter there criticising their every move, they could almost enjoy it. Bobby sniffed and sneezed but worked manfully. He was only seven, but he was a well-seasoned assistant.
‘When I was little,’ Annie told him, ‘we did all this by hand. It took ages, even though we didn’t have so many cows then.’
Like Bobby, she had had to help from an early age. She could hardly remember a time when she hadn’t laboured on the farm.
