Текст книги "The Boy with No Boots"

Автор книги: Sheila Jeffries

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

‘I can’t dance,’ said Ethie. ‘You know that, Kate.’

‘You can. You learned it at school like I did, Ethie. Come on, it’s time you had some FUN.’

‘Dancing isn’t fun. Dancing is torture.’

Kate stood and looked at her sister in concern. Ethie looked like a guilty dog who had stolen a chicken carcass. Her mouth drooped and her pale blue eyes were furtive and full of pain.

‘What is wrong, Ethie?’ she asked, holding out both her hands to her sister. She wanted to understand what it was that made Ethie perpetually unhappy. ‘Are you homesick?’

Ethie’s eyes prickled. She couldn’t accept Kate’s warm kindness. She thought of the stolen letters and suddenly wanted to blurt it all out, there in the street, but she couldn’t.

‘It’s nothing,’ she mumbled.

‘Is it time of the month again?’

‘NO.’

‘What is it then?’

‘Nothing. Just leave me alone, Kate. And I am not going dancing with you.’

Kate took her sister’s arm determinedly. ‘Would you like to come and see the horses with me?’ she asked. ‘You’d love Little Foxy, she’s so friendly. Ian might invite you to ride.’

Ethie looked tempted. ‘Oh, all right, if you insist,’ she sighed.

The walk back to Asan Farm took the girls along the towpath between the railway line and the canal, then past the Tillerman’s Racing Stables where Kate worked every morning. She did everything from mucking out stables, cleaning tack, grooming and feeding the beautiful horses. It was hard work, but the highlight of the morning was going out on Little Foxy for the gallop. Ian Tillerman always wanted her alongside him, the stable boys behind them on the other four horses. Kate had made friends with everyone, quickly laughing away the initial smirks, joking and teasing as they worked. She enjoyed it and liked having money to spend.

She took Ethie to see Little Foxy. The mare arched her sleek neck over the stable door, her ears pricked and eyes shining as she greeted the two girls.

‘She’s lovely,’ said Ethie, reaching up to stroke her along the crest of her mane. ‘I’ll bet she’s a lovely ride.’

‘She’s wonderful. Light as air,’ said Kate. ‘But she is a bit nervous. She’s petrified of tractors and motorcars, and motorbikes. We have to be careful she doesn’t meet any on that narrow road.’

The two girls stood petting the beautiful horse, and Ian Tillerman soon appeared, carrying a saddle on his hip, his brow furrowed.

‘Oh, it’s KATE.’ His frown changed to a smile of recognition. ‘I didn’t recognise you with . . . with . . .’

‘The new hairdo!’ Kate beamed coquettishly and patted her newly bobbed hair. Ian reached out a suntanned hand and moved a curl gently away from her cheek.

‘Hmm. I quite like it. Very trendy – and cheeky too,’ he appraised, then he glanced at Ethie and frowned again.

‘My sister, Ethie,’ said Kate.

‘How do you do.’ Ethie shook hands stiffly, trying not to stare at the leathery hunk of a man. Ian Tillerman was her ideal image of the kind of man she wanted. Broad tweedy shoulders, long confident legs, white teeth and dark, attentive eyes. But as usual his eyes looked her over quickly, distastefully she thought, and turned back to gaze raptly at Kate.

‘We want to go dancing,’ Kate was saying brightly. ‘So we had our hair bobbed. It’s liberating!’

‘I’ll take you dancing,’ said Ian. ‘I’ll pick you both up at seven tonight, and take you home afterwards.’

‘Oooh. Yes, we’d love that. Wouldn’t we, Ethie?’

Ethie scowled down at her neat navy shoes.

‘No thanks,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’ve got to be up early to collect the salmon from the putts.’

She didn’t look at Ian Tillerman again. Sensing the look of relief on his face was enough, she didn’t want to see it any more than she wanted him to see the sudden fury in her eyes. It wasn’t fair. Her plan to hurt Kate by stealing Freddie’s letters was backfiring. Now, she thought, Kate was flirting with the man she wanted, and Ethie could see that Ian Tillerman was already besotted.

It was late October and the trees were aflame with autumn colours, an Indian summer blessed with misty mornings, and afternoons drowsy with the perfume of cider and wood smoke. At sunset, the white tendrils of mist crept low over the Levels, leaving the town of Monterose isolated like an island of rosy light, the church clock glinting, the bakery windows golden.

A beam of sun flared through the garden gate into the yard, lighting the delicate face of the stone angel. It glistened with moisture from the final wash-down Freddie had given it. Now he walked round it, looking at it from every angle, his mind ringing with a blend of excitement and satisfaction.

It was finished. Freddie thought it was the best thing he had ever made. He’d seen the angel waiting inside the block of stone, and his hands had brought her alive. She had Kate’s beautiful face, and Kate’s flowing hair. She had praying hands and outstretched curving wings. He didn’t need to show her to anyone. It was enough to have brought her into being with the combined skill of his artistic soul and his careful hands. Everything else he had done in his life was suddenly meaningless, as if this was his life, his reason for living.

Standing in the twilight with one bright star in the smooth sheen of the western sky, Freddie sensed he was not alone. A circle of radiance hung around the stone angel, like an aurora, gently shifting, settling into shapes that he recognised, faces looking in at him: Granny Barcussy, Levi, his grandfather, and there were others, a crowd of shining faces looking at his angel.

Freddie nodded at them, dried his hands on a cloth, and stooped to pick up his scattered tools and put them in their wooden box.

Annie was asleep in the armchair, her knitting on the floor beside her. Freddie helped himself to a bowl of soup from the pot, cut a hunk of cheddar and broke a crusty end from the loaf on the table. He ate his supper, staring out at the silhouette of the angel in the garden, until it was too dark to see her. Then he closed the heavy curtains, locked the door and sat looking at his mother’s sleeping face, thinking it had brought him down to earth with an uncomfortable thud. She was so tired lately that he had to wake her up to send her to bed. It wasn’t the work in the bakery that tired her, it was her nerves. Something had to be done.

In the lonely weeks since Kate’s departure he’d focused on the stone carving, and it had lifted him into a different dimension, and while he worked on the angel he was thinking about the other blocks of stone he had accumulated. He knew exactly what he was going to carve from each one, the images catalogued in his mind. Owls, squirrels, foxes, eagles, dolphins, he wanted to try them all, and right at the end of his list he planned to buy a substantial block of Bath stone and have a go at a lion.

Finishing the angel was like coming to the end of an epic novel which had taken weeks to read. Without it, there was an awkward space in his mind, and the complications of his life came diving and swooping like returning swallows. He picked up Kate’s last letter and read it, frowning. It was shorter than usual, and she hadn’t said anything about his planned visit, which seemed strange. He’d written about the stone angel, and she hadn’t mentioned that either. It wasn’t like Kate. He was concerned about the job she had started. Riding racehorses seemed dangerous for a beautiful young woman like Kate. And Freddie didn’t like the sound of Ian Tillerman one bit. A toff, that’s what Ian Tillerman was, he decided.

But first something had to be done about his mother. Freddie sat thinking in the candlelight, and one person kept popping up in his mind. She’d always taken an interest in him, encouraged him with whatever he was doing, and, he thought suddenly, her husband was a doctor! Freddie put on his coat and cap, and stepped out into the moonlit street. With long, decisive strides he headed up the hill to the Old Coach House with the new electric lights shining from its windows. He opened the wrought iron gate, took a deep breath, and knocked on Joan Jarvis’s door.

Chapter Seventeen

THE ROAD TO LYNESEND

Freddie pushed the heavy motorbike onto the waiting ferry boat, his stomach tight with nerves as he eyed the foaming clay-brown river water slopping at the edges of the ramp. He parked the bike and went to stand at the front of the broad boat which rocked and creaked on the tide.

‘Last trip today,’ shouted the ferryman. ‘There’s rough weather coming in.’

Freddie peeled off the woollen balaclava Annie had knitted him, and let the unfamiliar salty breeze stream through his hair. The weather was uncannily bright for late November, the hills a sharp blade of indigo, the last leaves of the elm trees along the shore a lurid yellow. The waters of the Severn Estuary glittered ferociously, the fast tide surging up the middle.

When he saw the sunlight on the water Freddie remembered Kate’s vivid description of the sea. He took the black velvet box out of his inner pocket and opened it to steal a glimpse of the diamond ring he had bought for her. Exposing it to the salt wind and the light seemed a romantic thing to do and the strobes of crystal light from the diamond satisfied Freddie. Imagining her face when she saw it gave him immense pleasure. He’d spent all his money on it, after buying the motorbike, but Kate was worth every penny. It was odd that she hadn’t responded to his letters telling her about the stone angel and the motorbike, but he’d decided to go anyway. Especially when Herbie had made him listen to the weather forecast on his crackly radio.

‘You go now, lad – before those storms come in,’ he’d warned. ‘You don’t want to be stuck on top of the Mendips in the snow, do you?’

Freddie had been in a dinghy a few times across the winter floods on the Levels, but to him this Severn ferry boat was awesome. The throb of its engine under his boots, the ageing, sea-soaked timber, the fat ropes, the rusting cabin. He was unprepared for the savage power of the tide, the way it swept the heavy boat sideways as if it were a bobbing walnut shell. Used to listening to the sound of an engine, he could hear this one labouring against the current and sense the tension of the boat’s structure. Looking at the other passengers, he was reassured to see that nobody seemed worried. People were laughing and talking while he had been holding his breath.

Safe on the other side, he paused on the jetty to study his map and rearrange his clothing. He would have liked to sit and watch the flocks of geese dipping and swerving over the river, their barking cries like a cantata on the wind. But it was too cold to keep still. He pulled his mud-caked balaclava over his head, glad that it covered most of his face. His goggles were mud-spattered too, from the rough ride over the Mendips, through Bristol, and down to the estuary, and he thought his face would be covered in mud too. Kate would think that very funny, but he wouldn’t mind. Just to hear her laugh again would feed his soul. He buttoned the thick leather jacket Herbie had lent him, cleaned the goggles and put them on, and set off, glad to feel in control again. The satisfying roar of his bike cut a path through the rainswept silence as he headed for Lynesend.

Ahead of him the wooded hills of the Forest of Dean were bulked against the sky, appearing and disappearing through the masses of low rain-bearing cloud. The north wind whooshed in his ears, barbs of sleet stung his cheeks. Soon his hands and feet were numb, his knees and elbows ached, and he could feel his cold lips cracking. Determined to reach Lynesend before the weather closed in, he pushed on, the motorbike bouncing and splashing over the puddled road. He thought longingly of Kate’s family, the warm kitchen and the cups of cocoa Sally used to give him with a dollop of scalded cream on the top, and sometimes Kate would wink at him and add a dash of rum. The memory of her smile illuminated his journey along the shores of the Severn, and the feel of the little velvet box in his pocket kept him going. The anticipation of seeing her again burned in his heart like a lantern.

He turned east, following the road inland, the sleet flying sideways out of the dark sky. No one was on the road except him, no horses and carts, or motorcars, and the villages he rode through were deserted, the cottage chimneys smoking as if people were huddled inside sheltering from the icy weather. He paused once to look at a signpost and clean the mud from his goggles. His feet were two blocks of solid ice, his hands and wrists ached and the breath wheezed in his chest.

Annie had given him a small leather case with a tot of brandy in a silver bottle. Freddie disliked the medicinal taste of brandy but a good swig brought a welcome glow of heat into his throat. Exhausted, he pressed on, through the mud and the cold, and at last he came to the place Kate had described in her letter. A sign saying ‘PRIVATE ROAD’, and a narrow lane alongside the canal. Food, and shelter – and Kate – were not far away now.

Enormous barges were moored on the canal, laden with the biggest logs Freddie had ever seen. Fascinated, he lost concentration and when he looked back at the lane it had curved sharply to the left. He braked, skidded and revved the bike, just managing to steer it round the corner, and right in front of him two tall racehorses loomed out of the mist.

Annie bristled when she saw Joan Jarvis come mincing into the shop. At closing time she was tired from a day of worrying about Freddie. Why had he insisted on going off on that dreadful motorbike?

A new bakery had opened in Monterose and gradually Annie’s regular customers were choosing to go there instead of climbing the hill to Barcussy’s Bakery. The new bakery had a motor van for their delivery round, with smart lettering on the side. Annie knew she couldn’t compete, especially without Freddie’s input. Every day there was bread left on the shelves, wasted, and soon she could no longer afford to employ Gladys. She kept the shop open for mornings only, and spent her afternoons sleeping, knitting or pottering in the garden, battling the depression and the fear which had intensified since Levi’s death. In the afternoons she needed to hide from the world.

So the last person she wanted to see was Joan with her nauseating fox fur dangling, her scarlet nails and her intimidating confidence.

‘Yes. What would you like?’ Annie asked, her eyes suspicious.

‘I don’t want any bread. I came to see the stone angel.’ Joan smiled disarmingly right into Annie’s defences.

‘Wait a minute. I’ll close the shop.’ Annie locked the door and turned the sign to CLOSED. She led Joan through the scullery and into the garden.

‘Oh, my dear! Look at your chrysanthemums.’ Joan stopped by the flowerbed along the sunny wall. ‘Aren’t they beautiful? You must have green fingers.’

Annie thawed a little. ‘People say I have.’

When Joan saw the stone angel she gasped and flung her arms in the air, her painted mouth opened wide showing two yellowy front teeth crossed over each other.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said in a whisper, her eyes turning to look at Annie. ‘Freddie did this?’

Annie smiled, puffed up with pride.

‘Ah. He did. And he’s never had no training. ’Tis just a gift.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ Joan sidled round the stone angel, looking at it from all angles. ‘Isn’t she beautiful? Perfect, just perfect. And the patience! Freddie is a remarkable young man. You must be so proud, Annie – may I call you Annie?’

‘Yes, of course. And yes, I am proud of Freddie.’ Annie’s eyes glistened. Hesitantly she glanced into Joan’s eyes and found them unexpectedly warm and friendly.

‘But isn’t this exciting?’ Joan placed a manicured hand on the stone angel’s head. ‘And the face! It’s exquisite. Did he have a model for it?’

‘He didn’t say.’ Annie didn’t want to tell Joan about Kate Loxley.

Joan pursed her lips and stood gazing raptly at the stone angel as if it was a newborn baby. Annie watched her, suddenly aware of the bright aura of light that surrounded Joan. Seeing it brought Annie’s own gift, long suppressed, to life, like a treasure discovered in an attic. She allowed it for a few guilty moments, then rearranged herself, smoothing her apron and twisting her wedding ring round and round her finger.

‘Has anyone seen the angel yet?’ Joan asked.

‘No.’

‘Then I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Annie, if you don’t mind. I’m going to tell the vicar. He ought to see it, don’t you think?’

‘Could do.’

‘Annie, he’s looking for someone to do a statue of St Peter for the church porch. The church has some money set aside for it.’ Joan’s words jingled with such enthusiasm that Annie could hardly follow.

‘And – is Freddie going to do more carvings? He’s got all this stone.’

‘Oh yes. He’s got plenty of ideas.’

‘Then I shall give him a commission.’

Annie looked bewildered. ‘What’s that?’

‘A job. A stone carving job. I want two majestic eagles on our gateposts. My husband would love them. We’ll pay him of course. Is Freddie here?’

‘No. He’s gone off today on his motorbike. I hate the thing.’

Joan hardly seemed to hear her. ‘I’m going to see the vicar right now,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. She slid her hands into a pair of fox fur gloves, and smiled caringly at Annie. ‘It’s only down the road. Why don’t you come with me?’

A suffocating silence crept over Annie. Instead of looking at Joan’s bright encouraging eyes, she looked down at the floor, her eyes clouded with shame.

‘I—’ She was going to say ‘can’t’ but the word froze in her throat. A person with Joan’s energy and fire was not going to accept ‘can’t’, that was obvious to Annie, so she said, ‘I won’t, not just now.’

Joan cocked her head sympathetically as if she sensed a problem. Annie could see the question hovering and she braced herself, but Joan just gave her a little pat on the shoulder.

‘Perhaps another day,’ she said. ‘But I’ll go anyway. Thank you, Annie, for showing me Freddie’s work – and your lovely flowers. I’ll come and see you tomorrow. Bye now.’

‘Bye.’

Annie showed her out, and watched her skittering down the road towards the vicarage.

‘She knows,’ Annie thought desperately. ‘She knows.’

Ian Tillerman looked down from the lofty height of his dappled grey racehorse at the mud-spattered stranger on his motorbike.

‘Turn the engine off, will you please?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you know horses are frightened of motorbikes?’

Ian Tillerman’s horse didn’t look bothered by the motorbike, but the other horse, a bay, had wheeled around and bolted back down the road, its rider clinging on, its hooves clattering on the stony surface.

Freddie sighed and begrudgingly turned off the engine. Plastered in mud, he sat back astride the bike and tried to bend his frozen fingers. He realised he must have looked a sight in the black balaclava and goggles stuck to his face with mud. He eyed Ian Tillerman through the mud-splashed lenses and waited silently.

‘I gotta go on my way,’ said Freddie.

‘Oh, no you don’t.’ Ian Tillerman got down from his horse and confronted Freddie, his face an ugly brick red. ‘You’ve no business riding that damned motorbike down here. This is a private road. Can’t you read?’ He didn’t wait for Freddie to reply but ranted on, flicking his whip as he talked. ‘That’s a valuable racehorse, can’t you see that? She could break a leg galloping on the road like that. God knows what’s going to happen, and if there’s an accident I shall be suing you – whoever you are.’ He moved closer, his arms looped through the reins of the grey horse who stood watching the bay one still galloping in the distance. He put his red face close to Freddie and sniffed like a dog. ‘I thought so. Alcohol. You’ve been drinking. You’ve no business riding a motorbike in that state. Drunken bloody lout.’

Freddie was reminded of the times Levi had lost his temper. He knew it was no good trying to stop him, the explosion would go on until all the storm had been released. So Freddie hunkered down and let him rant, feeling nothing but contempt.

‘Who the hell are you, anyway? Where’ve you come from? Eh? Answer me.’

‘Now you listen to me,’ said Freddie calmly, looking Ian Tillerman in the eye. ‘I got a right and a reason to be here, and I don’t have to tell you who I am. Who are you, anyway?’

‘I’m Ian Tillerman. I own those racing stables, and this land.’

Freddie heard the name Ian Tillerman and no more after that. The rest of the diatribe hurtled past him as he remembered Kate’s letters.

‘And who is that on the other horse?’ he asked.

‘My fiancée,’ said Ian Tillerman pushing his chest out arrogantly. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours. And if anything happens to my Kate – you – you and your noisy bloody motorbike will end up facing MY lawyers in court.’

The shock burned into Freddie’s heart as if he’d been stung by a thousand wasps. His body wasn’t ready for it and neither was his mind. His heart took the full force of it and began to beat furiously in his cold body; the small velvet box with Kate’s ring shook in the secret silk of his pocket. Kate, his Kate. No wonder her letters had stopped. But why, why hadn’t she told him?

On automatic pilot, Freddie revved the motorbike, swung it round and roared back towards the ferry, a new blast of rain spattering his hunched form as he headed into the wind.

The motorbike which had carried him steadily all the way suddenly behaved like a demon, wrenching and twisting his angry body, skidding and flying over the ruts and potholes. Freddie pushed it faster and faster, no longer caring, hardly seeing where he was going, the wind howling in his ears, a searing pain deep in his chest.

Two miles further on, the rough road turned sharp left over a bridge that spanned the canal. Freddie heard the fierce rasp of skidding wheels and the handlebars jammed sideways as the front wheel hit a stone post with a sickening crunch. He saw the canal water steaming, he saw leaves and clods of mud storming through the air, and then an almighty splash of briny water hit the side of his head, forcing itself straight through his balaclava. He landed spread-eagled on the squelching wet bank, turned his head and watched his motorbike sinking into the dark water, making a deep groaning bubbling sound that gradually settled into a silent lap-lapping of water. Gasping for breath, Freddie clawed at tufts of grass with his hands, then laid his cheek on the cold mud and plummeted down, down into an echoing coma.

Nobody came running. Except for a lone workman standing up on a barge in the distance, the place was deserted. The fuel from the submerged motorbike coiled into swirling rainbows on the still surface of the canal and a shaft of acid sunlight lit up the mud-covered body lying on the bank.

Kate sat back in the saddle and pulled steadily at Little Foxy’s reins, talking to her constantly, trying to keep fear out of her voice. Ian had warned her that the young mare was frightened of motorbikes. But there hadn’t been time to take evasive action. This motorbike with its mud-plastered rider had come at them on the bend just as they were returning from the gallop. The horses were tired and steaming in the cold air, and Kate had relaxed and let Little Foxy plod along on a loose rein. She’d been in the middle of telling Ian a joke about a chicken when they’d heard the motorbike, and Little Foxy had whipped around and bolted, her head and tail high, her eyes wild. Kate heard Ian’s roar of rage and his voice shouting. She clung on, gradually regaining her grip, shortening the reins and trying to calm the panicking horse.

She steered Little Foxy through an open gateway into a ploughed field, knowing that the rough ground would slow her down, and it did. The mare soon came to a halt, her sides heaving. Kate got her feet free of the stirrups and swung herself down, quickly pulling the reins over Little Foxy’s head so that she had control.

‘Poor girl. It’s all right. I’m here,’ Kate said, her hand on the horse’s neck. She was surprised to find her own legs shaking. The incident had unnerved her. Quivering all over, she leaned against Little Foxy who gave her a sympathetic nudge as if she understood. ‘Well, look at us both, in such a state,’ said Kate in her normal cheerful voice. ‘Now we’re going to turn around and walk quietly back – no more panicking.’

With her legs still trembling, Kate coaxed the horse out of the field and into the lane where they both stood listening. The sound of the motorbike was fading into the distance, and she waited until it had disappeared completely, leaving only the whine of the wind and the rain pattering. Kate took a deep breath. She wanted a little cry but didn’t allow it. She was all right, it was just a memory that haunted her, of that day when she had been thrown from the cart at Monterose station. She found herself thinking of Freddie, wishing it was his thoughtful blue eyes welcoming her now, not Ian’s demanding stare.

When Freddie’s letters had stopped coming, Kate had covered her disappointment with lots of laughing and chatting. Ignoring Ethie’s gleeful jibes had been hard, but she’d managed, and Sally had said, ‘Freddie’s a young man, Kate. He’s not going to wait around for a girl who’s far away. Forget about him. He’ll soon find someone else – and so will you.’ The brisk assumption had hurt Kate. For a while she kept writing to Freddie, hoping he would reply, but the weeks went by and no letters came. She was glad of her morning job with the horses, and flattered by Ian Tillerman’s attention.

Little Foxy lifted her head and whinnied, and there was an answering whinny from Ian’s horse as he came to meet them, also on foot. Kate wanted a hug, but instead she got a blast of anger from him as they reached each other.

‘Damned infernal motorbikes,’ he stormed, ‘and you should have seen the state of him. Covered in mud and stinking of brandy. Bloody arrogant lout. I sent him packing. I told him he’d got no business down here. Bloody townies think they can go anywhere. No respect for horses. I mean, the way he came round that bend. Disgraceful hoodlum behaviour. And I told him if anything happened to that horse, I’d sue him. He soon turned tail and went, bloody lout. Good riddance too. By the way, are you all right?’

Kate opened her mouth to reply but Ian didn’t wait for an answer. He checked Little Foxy over. ‘Better get these horses back to the stables or they’ll catch a chill. Can you stay and rub her down, please? Come on, we’ll lead them back.’

He marched off briskly, leading his horse, and Kate followed, her eyes downcast. She didn’t want to work late today. She wanted some lunch and a warm fire, and time to be with her family, and time to recover.

When Freddie didn’t return that night, Annie wasn’t too concerned. He’d told her he was spending the night with Kate’s family and coming back the next day. So she kept herself busy, mixing dough and stoking coke ovens. She made Freddie’s bed up with fresh sheets and cooked his favourite shepherd’s pie to heat when he came home the next day.

But as she settled down with her knitting, a sense of isolation spread itself around Annie like a ripple from a stone dropped into a lake. On distant shores the waves broke like quiet folds of satin, so hushed that no one knew of the anguish that had started them.

Annie went to bed in the silent cottage, blew out her candle and lay listening for footsteps in the night street, or owls outside on the trees. She heard some drunken revelry from the pub, a man coughing and retching as he trudged past, the whirr of a bicycle and the click-click of a dog’s paws as it trotted by. Then it was so quiet she sensed the tick of the church clock and the rhythmic swooshing of her heartbeat. She lay rigid on her back, her eyes hopelessly staring into the velvet darkness. Eventually she got out of bed, groped her way to the door where she unhooked Levi’s old tartan dressing gown, took it back to bed and went to sleep cuddling it, comforted by the musty, malty smell of the corn mill.

It was still dark when she got up at 5 a.m. and put the first batch of bread in to cook. She mixed lardy cake and rolls, cut the dough and left them to rise. She was short of yeast. Freddie would get it for her, and he’d said he would be back about midday. Annie was glad she had plenty to do and customers to chat to, but the morning seemed endless.

Once again Joan appeared, full of enthusiasm, just at closing time.

‘I need a chat with you, Annie. Is Freddie back? No? Oh dear – but never mind, that can wait.’

‘What can wait?’ asked Annie. ‘Slow down a bit, Joan, will you? I think your mind goes twice as fast as mine.’

Joan smiled. ‘That’s what my husband says. Now then, Annie, those beautiful flowers you grow – and I see you’re good at arranging them too. How would you like to do the flowers for the church? They really need someone, and I’m no good at it.’

Annie frowned. She turned her back and busied herself brushing crumbs off the shelves. ‘I’ve gotta get on.’

Joan stood there determinedly. ‘I’d come with you and help,’ she said. ‘I can take you down now if you like. Annie?’

‘I – I don’t – walk too well,’ Annie mumbled, and her heart started thumping. The skin on her face felt tight and hot, and she wanted to cry.

‘Annie?’ Joan was there instantly, her hand on Annie’s tense shoulders, her eyes concerned. ‘What is it? You’re shaking. Here, sit down.’

She dragged a chair out but Annie wouldn’t sit down.

‘I can’t tell you,’ she said, gripping the counter.

‘Oh, you can,’ said Joan persuasively. ‘You can tell me. I promise I won’t gossip, Annie. It’ll just be between the two of us. Come on. Let’s sit down at your lovely table.’

Annie couldn’t move. She hadn’t had a friend since before the war. Levi and Freddie had been her whole world. It had to change. This woman with the scarlet nails and the fox furs whom she had totally misjudged was offering her a lifeline. She allowed herself to be led into the scullery where she sat at the table, her hands spread out on the friendly well-scrubbed wood.