Текст книги "The Boy with No Boots"

Автор книги: Sheila Jeffries

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter Nineteen

THE TURN OF THE TIDE

‘I’ll be perfectly all right,’ Ethie said impatiently to her father. ‘I know the tides by now. I’ve been doing it for six months now.’

Bertie nodded, his face pale as he sat in the wicker chair by the stove. ‘I wish I was well enough to go with you.’

‘Well you’re not,’ said Sally, ‘so stay there, Bertie, or I’ll tell you off.’

Bertie grinned, and wagged a finger at Ethie who stood half in and half out of the door. ‘Tonight is full moon,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a spring tide, and big bore up the river.’

Ethie rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to upset her father when he wasn’t well, but she wished he wouldn’t fuss over her and keep telling her the same things.

‘Let her go,’ she heard Sally saying as she closed the door. ‘She loves the river. And I hope she does come back with a fish. We could do with it.’

Ethie scowled and trudged out into the clear March sunshine. She walked down to the river, swinging the metal bucket. She wanted to be alone, like she was now, free of the expectations and the jealousy. The walk to the river was a wooded path with chaffinches and chiff-chaffs singing and blackthorn in full blossom, the verges yellow with celandine and dandelion. Corners of the river shone blue through the branches, then the whole vista opened up between two gnarled old pines, their bristly foliage covered in new cones. Wooden steps made from railway sleepers led down to the narrow beach and Ethie bounded down them.

After checking that she was alone on the sand, she ducked under the steps, put her arm into a deep crack in the low cliff, and extracted the long-handled fishing net she’d hidden in there.

‘Just check the putts, Ethie. Don’t go trying to fish the pools,’ her Uncle Don had said. ‘You’re not experienced enough for that.’

But Ethie had taken the net from the barn and hidden it. She’d use it to check the shallow pools that shone like opals in the sand at low tide. She found it more exciting than dragging a trapped fish out of the putts. Paddling up to her knees she often caught smaller fish, and once she’d gone triumphantly home with a conger eel in the bucket. How she had caught it was one of Ethie’s many secrets.

In the warm March sunshine she stripped off her boots and socks, something else she’d been told not to do. The velvet sand and the chill of the water on her skin was soothing to Ethie. It cooled the eternal burning of her thoughts, the inner loneliness, the longing for transformation. She felt part of the river, a rare contentment as she wandered from pool to pool, following ridges of hard sand encrusted with the myriad pinks and greys of tiny clamshells.

Far out in the estuary, close to the deep channel of the main river, Ethie felt dazzled by her freedom, as if she looked down on herself and saw her spirit like a flickering candle, reaching out, longing to escape from the body she hated. Why bother to catch a fish? It was hot for March and she was sweating in her heavy farm clothes. Why not strip naked, roll in the crisp sand and let the cool river heal her burning skin? She looked back at her life and it was a switchback of rage and injustice, jealousy and pimples. It coiled after her like a poisonous snake. The only place she remembered being happy was in the water, swimming in the school pool, in the summer river at Hilbegut, rowing a boat across the winter floods with the white wings of water birds all around her.

Ethie lay down on the sand and allowed herself to be sucked into a whirling dream where her itchy clothes became the soft satins of forgiveness, where her hair was long again and rippling like waterweed. She lay on her back and gazed through the shimmer of the sky to whatever was out there, to whoever may know she was lying there, a pearl in the oyster shell of day.

‘Why am I so horrible?’ she shouted at the sky. ‘Why have I got pimples and a fat body and a wicked deceitful heart? Why me? Why?’

She listened for an answer, but nothing came. Only the burble of the turning tide flooding into the pools and stealing over the sandbanks and mud flats, glittering as it came. And in the distance the roar of the Severn Bore, foaming, gathering height as it funnelled into the estuary.

Ethie sat up. She tasted salt on the wind. She looked back at the beach and the line of putts, and saw speeding water where sand had been. She looked at her hand clutching the handle of the fishing net.

‘What am I DOING?’

She scrambled to her feet in a panic, and saw that she now stood on a narrow island of sand. It was shifting and crumbling under her feet as the brown water came churning in ahead of the spring tide.

‘Get back – get back.’ Ethie heard her own voice rasping like a storm twisting a stalk of barley. Clutching the net, she waded into the current, feeling the water sucking sand away from her heels. She was a strong swimmer, thank goodness, she thought. She kept wading desperately, waist deep, the water bitter and fierce around her body, dragging her heavy clothes, lifting her now, her chin suddenly in the water, her mouth spluttering, gasping with the cold. Fighting the weight of her sodden clothes, she swam vigorously towards the line of putchers. If she could only reach them, she could scramble to safety.

In the hours she’d spent by the river Ethie had come to recognise the burbling roar of the Severn Bore. It excited her to watch the edge of creamy foam rumpling up the river hauling the tide like a great silver breath discharged from the lungs of the ocean. Hearing it now, Ethie knew she was going to die, and she shouted to the sky.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mum and Dad and Kate. I did love you. I did.’ And then she fought to stay afloat, the cold reaching deep into her bones, her breath lurching in her chest. She fought, and she cursed, and at last Ethie let go as the brown waters carried her swiftly upstream under the silent, watching, waiting skies.

She uttered a final curse at the sky.

‘I’ll be back,’ she shouted, ‘I’ll be back.’

Kate and Sally stood one each side of Ethie’s empty bed, looking at each other.

‘Come on Mummy. We’ve got to do this,’ said Kate.

‘I know. It just seems so final.’ Sally looked down at the neatly made bed with its white pillows and the green and black tartan rug that Ethie had always wanted. She was glad of Kate’s bright strength there in the room with her. ‘You’re too young to have this happen to you, Kate,’ she said, ‘especially just now, after losing our home and with you worrying about Freddie.’

‘I’m all right, don’t you worry,’ said Kate. Her toe touched Ethie’s slippers which were under the bed. She picked them up tenderly and put them in the wooden tea chest with the rest of Ethie’s things. ‘Now let’s start by folding the blanket.’

Once the blanket had gone, Ethie’s bed looked ordinary, and the two women silently folded the heavy blankets and the starched sheets. Kate took off the pillowcases and added them to the laundry basket. Now they were looking down at the bare blue and white striped mattress and it seemed natural to sit on it and talk about Ethie.

‘If there’s anything of hers you want, you must have it, Kate,’ said Sally. ‘Her clothes perhaps.’

‘I don’t want her clothes.’ Kate shook her head adamantly. To her, Ethie’s clothes were gloomy, and touching them somehow connected her to all the unhappiness and the resentment her sister had emanated. ‘But I’d like this.’ She rummaged in the tea chest and took out a heavy navy blue book, its cover embossed with gold.

‘Oh yes,’ said Sally. ‘The Water Babies. It was her favourite book. She was always reading it, even when she was grown up. Ironic, isn’t it? There must have been something in it, some truth that she needed.’

Kate put the book on the windowsill. Outside, in the home field, baby lambs were scampering and blackbirds were warbling. Through the trees glinted a silver strip of river, and she looked away, suppressing the twinge of longing for Hilbegut.

‘We’d better turn the mattress, hadn’t we?’ Sally said, getting hold of the two fabric handles. ‘Lift it up, then we’ll put it on the floor and turn it.’

They heaved the mattress and slid it onto the floor. Then both women gasped. Lying on the brown Hessian that covered the bed base was a pile of little blue envelopes.

Kate went pale. She picked one up.

‘Letters. My letters. From Freddie.’

Sally stood watching her, transfixed. Ethie had hurt Kate, even from the grave, and Sally felt devastated and ashamed. For the first time since Ethie’s death, Kate was openly weeping, her face red with fury as she gathered the precious letters, each one beautifully addressed to Oriole Kate Loxley in Freddie’s copperplate script.

‘How could she DO this? My own SISTER.’ She wept and wept, clutching the letters close against her heart. ‘How could she take Freddie’s letters? And why? WHY?’

Sally put her arms round Kate and let her cry, but Kate whirled around out of the room and ran downstairs to her father who was sitting on a bench outside in the sun. By the time Kate reached him, she couldn’t speak for the sobs racking her body.

‘Kate!’ he said in surprise and held out his arms. She slumped onto his shoulder, the letters still tight in her hand.

‘What is it? My lovely Kate. Come on, don’t cry. I’m here,’ Bertie soothed, alarmed to feel Kate shaking all over. He hugged her close and leaned his pale cheek on her hair. ‘We’re all grieving for Ethie,’ he said, thinking he was sure to be right. But Kate sat up and looked at him, her cheeks flushed, her mouth twitching, and a look of burning fury in her eyes that Bertie had never seen before.

‘Kate?’

But Kate couldn’t speak. She held it in, knowing that if she did speak it would be a scream that would never stop. Fearing she might crush them, she put Freddie’s letters down on the bench. Bertie glanced at them, his brow furrowed, then up at Sally who appeared in the door. He raised his eyebrows, questioning.

‘Freddie’s letters. Hidden under Ethie’s mattress,’ she mouthed.

‘Come here.’

Bertie moved sideways to let Sally sit on the other side of him, and put his arms around both of them like the wings of an angel.

‘Shh,’ he said. ‘No – don’t try to talk. Let’s just be quiet. Be quiet and listen. Shh.’

At first Kate could only hear the awful sound of her own sobbing, and with each sob, a pain that felt like broken glass. Then she heard her heartbeat loud and fast, and her father’s slow, peaceful one, and Sally’s rhythmic breathing. She heard the chickens having a dust bath, their wings flapping madly, the baby lambs bleating out in the fields, the distant throb of Uncle Don’s tractor. She heard the blackbird singing and her father’s watch ticking deep in his waistcoat pocket. And then she heard the bees. She was back in the woods at Hilbegut, looking so deep into the blue of Freddie’s eyes as he told her the poem, and she felt love come flooding back into her being.

She dried her eyes on Bertie’s hanky, and looked at her parents’ concerned faces.

‘What am I crying about?’ she said brightly. ‘I’ve got all these letters to read!’

‘That’s my girl,’ said Bertie. ‘My golden bird.’

‘Letter for you.’ Annie tutted, as she put the plump envelope on Freddie’s plate. ‘It’s got a Gloucestershire postmark. That Loxley girl, is it? Took her long enough to answer your letters! Looks like she’s got a lot to say. It’s a wonder that envelope hasn’t exploded.’

Freddie picked up the bulging envelope and turned it over and over in his hands. He’d left the pain of losing Kate far behind, back in that autumn time of cold rain and Ian Tillerman’s eyes, and his motorbike going in the canal. He didn’t want to go back there.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ asked Annie sharply.

‘Not yet,’ said Freddie.

‘I should burn it.’

‘Burn it? Why?’

‘That Loxley girl’s hurt you enough,’ Annie said fiercely, her arms folded over her bust. ‘Just give me five minutes with her.’

‘Kate doesn’t deliberately hurt people.’ The look in Freddie’s blue eyes silenced Annie. She set about dishing up lunch, her cheeks twitching with disapproval. Freddie tucked Kate’s letter into his inner pocket to read when his mother wasn’t breathing down his neck. ‘This looks good, thanks.’ He rolled up his sleeves and tackled the steaming meal of steak and kidney pudding with purple sprouting broccoli and carrots. It calmed Annie to see him enjoying it. He knew she’d been trying to build him up after the long winter of illness, and it was working. It was good not to be hungry.

Kate’s letter felt like a warm hand over his heart. Yet something was haunting him. Ethie! Those pale tormented eyes kept staring into his mind. He didn’t like Ethie. So why was she there, in his mind, wanting to tell him something? On his visits to Hilbegut Farm, Ethie had regarded him with smouldering resentment. It hadn’t bothered him then, but now it hung on his conscience like a sparrow hawk.

Unable to concentrate on the stone carving, Freddie downed tools and headed for the hills in his lorry, drawn as always to the ridge of hill where he and Kate had picnicked. Still Ethie’s eyes followed him as he drove through the scented, blossom rich lanes, past swathes of dog violets, stitchwort and primroses. He longed to have Kate there beside him on the beautiful April day, and by the time he reached the parking place, her letter was hot in his pocket. Before he even opened it, he felt powerless. She was his love. That hadn’t changed and never could until the end of time. No matter how much he immersed himself in his work, his love for Kate was an eternal presence; it was both a wound and a passion.

Hundreds of butterflies bobbed and danced over the hillside. Orange-tips and yellow brimstones, hoverflies and bumblebees gathering nectar from the flowers. Kate would have loved it, Freddie thought, allowing himself the dream. He’d paint her a picture.

The sun was warm for April, and he sat on the ridge, gazing across the Levels towards the Bristol Channel. A sparrow hawk hovered right in his line of vision. Without warning it swooped like a deadly arrow and caught a linnet from a pair that were fluttering over the grasses. Freddie heard the bird scream, and saw its mate cowering in the grass, its wings trembling, its little voice cheeping in distress. He watched the hawk fly off with the tiny bird struggling in its claws, and Ethie’s eyes again looked cruelly into his soul. With a sudden foreboding, he opened Kate’s letter.

Dearest Freddie,

I hardly know how to tell you this, but your beautiful letters have only just reached me, every one since September. I sat down and read them over and over again, Freddie, and oh how I cried! Happy tears, and sad tears. I was distraught to find you had written me those interesting, lovely letters and I had not been able to respond. No wonder you stopped writing to me. You must have been hurt, and undeservedly so. I hope that the sad news I must tell you now will help you to understand and forgive me.

Two weeks ago my sister, Ethie, was out in the estuary, alone, checking the putchers as she always did. We don’t know exactly how it happened, only that she must have been caught unawares by the Severn Bore. She was swept away, tragically drowned, and when the tide ebbed, they found her body miles upstream.

Freddie stopped reading, the letter frozen in his hands. He looked up, and the sparrow hawk was there again, chillingly close, circling in a sky which was the colour of Ethie’s eyes – pale blue with that leonine tinge of gold. His vision had been true. He’d never doubted or questioned his visions before, but this one had disturbed him at a very deep level. Finding it true was shocking. Why did he have this gift? Why hadn’t he shared it? Could he have saved Ethie’s life? Was that why her eyes were haunting him now? He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Nobody would have believed him, especially a rebellious young woman like Ethie. Had his parents been right to forbid him to speak of it? Wise, he thought, but not right.

Shaken, he returned to reading the bundle of numbered pages Kate had sent him:

My parents are terribly upset, of course, and so am I. Ethie was not a happy person, but we loved her. I hope and believe that she is happy now, and in a better place. We held a quiet little funeral for her in the church at Lynesend, but we all wished we could have taken her home to Hilbegut. After the funeral we went down to the putchers and threw some flowers in the river. The tide whipped them away so fast, tiny daffodils and primroses looking so lost on that vast river. Mummy couldn’t stop crying. She said that no one ever gave Ethie a bunch of flowers in her whole life and she had to die before she could have one. None of us understood Ethie, but she was secretly very clever and loved to read, and her favourite book was The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley.

This morning I had another shock. Mummy and I were clearing Ethie’s bed, and there, under the mattress, were all your letters, unopened. Mummy said Ethie had always gone running to meet the postman while I was at work, and she must have taken your letters and hidden them. I was devastated to think that my own sister could have done that. Why, why did she want to hurt me so?

A rush of anger engulfed Freddie’s mind. He visualised Ethie’s pale sparrow hawk eyes and sent her a furious message with the power of his thought. ‘Leave us alone, Ethie. Go into the light and don’t ever come back. And if you try, I’ll have something to say to you. I’ll be waiting.’

He read on.

Please forgive my family, Freddie. They are part of me and I feel responsible. I’m sure that in time we shall get over it and that happy times will come again.

I would have loved to welcome you here on your new motorbike, but of course you didn’t know that. Will you come another time? There’s so much more I want to tell you, and I want us to have another picnic together, and next time we shall go to the sea. I want to be with you when you see the real sea for the first time! And I want to see the stone angel. Fancy you making it look like me!

I wish I could move back to Somerset, but I must stay and help my parents to get over Ethie’s death. I hope you will write to me again, Freddie, and tell me all about your work and your life, and I hope that next time I shall write you a more cheerful letter!

Love and God Bless

From Kate xx

He read the letter again, this time extracting little sparkles of light and hope from it. She hadn’t mentioned Ian Tillerman. And she’d called him ‘dearest’ Freddie. Not ‘dear’. ‘Dearest’. That felt warm and special. He stared at the word for a long time, drinking in its meaning like a man in the desert with a beaker of cider. He stared at the ‘Love and God Bless’ and the two kisses. Then he folded the letter and stuffed it back into his pocket, over his heart. Despite its sad news, it was precious, with precious grains of hope like the heads of golden barley he had gleaned from that field so long ago. Grains of gold that would nourish and heal.

But be careful, he thought, and remembered another line of Yeats.

‘But I being poor have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.’

Chapter Twenty

TREAD SOFTLY

Freddie reached under his bed and dragged out a small leather suitcase. He wiped off the dust with his hanky, and put the case on the table. It had belonged to Granny Barcussy, and as soon as he touched it he could feel the swift warm vibration of her. He’d rarely opened it since Levi had given it to him. The burning grief he’d felt was somehow trapped inside, so he’d put it away under the bed, and now his mind was on fire with the need to find something he hoped was in there.

He unclipped the two rusty clasps and lifted the lid. It squeaked and flopped back, releasing a faint scent of old lavender bags and damp. A few silverfish darted across the dark book covers, escaping from the light. Gingerly he searched inside the books, flipping the gold-rimmed thin pages; he shuffled through a box of letters and cards with crinkled edges. Nothing. Surely he couldn’t have lost something so precious?

Disappointed, Freddie took everything out, laid it on his table and stared at the cream and brown emptiness of the case. Last to come out was a flat brown paper bag, the paper eaten away in little lines and blotches by the silverfish and the damp.

He heard Granny Barcussy’s voice, clear as glass, and there she was, sitting in his chair, her crocheted green shawl around her small shoulders, her knobbly hands on the table, her eyes smiling at him. ‘It’s in the cloth,’ she said, and her image melted away into an apple-green radiance that left Freddie feeling invigorated. He picked up the paper bag and carefully slid out the dark blue cloth. The satiny fabric had been beautifully ironed and he’d never dared unfold it in case he spoilt it.

Smoothing it with his hands he remembered watching Granny Barcussy sitting in the candlelight on winter evenings stitching the cloth with gold and silver silks, so close to the candle that it illuminated her hair like cobwebs of gold. She’d embroidered the sun, moon and stars in each corner, and little curly clouds and flying birds around the edges.

‘What are you doing it for, Granny?’ he’d asked, and she’d said, ‘It’s a poem cloth, a love story, about a man who dreams of marrying a beautiful woman. It’s like a prayer, a prayer for your dreams.’

Freddie wanted the poem now with an intense spiritual hunger. It said everything he felt about Kate, and he could only remember the last three lines. He wanted all of it. Conscious of the rough, stained skin of his big fingers, he unfolded the cloth, spreading it out over his bed. In the centre, in perfect condition, was a piece of cardboard cut from a fag packet. Shaking with emotion, Freddie took it to the window to read the poem Granny Barcussy had inscribed on it in her tiny neat writing. That was it, he thought, satisfied. A prayer for his dreams.

He tucked the square of cardboard into his wallet. Then he took the dark blue cloth downstairs, past Annie who was asleep in her chair, and out into the summer twilight. The western sky was apricot and deep turquoise, with one bright star. Freddie put both hands on his carving of the stone angel and repeated the poem silently, and he could feel the words in his hands, percolating into the stone where he wanted them to stay forever. Then, with the deepest reverence, he draped the embroidered cloth right over the stone angel and left it there.

Like the ghost of a long ago ocean, the white layers of mist covered the Somerset Levels turning the hills to mystic islands. The windows of Monterose Hospital reflected the pale morning sunlight. It was an imposing building, looming over the summit of the town, and today it had an air of expectancy as if to welcome the attractive young woman who was walking up from the station, her red shoes tip-tapping smartly, her skirt swinging, her dark eyes alert with excitement.

Kate paused at the gates to smooth her clothes and pat her hair which was now shoulder-length again. Then she entered the building with a business-like strut.

About an hour later, she emerged, her eyes brimming with tears, her lips pursed tightly. She walked round to a bench on the other side of the clump of elm trees and sat down to compose herself out of sight of the hospital windows. Only then did she let go of the mixed emotions corked up inside her. She’d managed a dignified exit. Now she wanted to kick off her shoes and dance barefoot and exuberant around the twiggy trunks of the elms, the way she had danced at home under the copper beeches of Hilbegut so long ago. Another part of her wanted to cry and cry. For Ethie. For her family. For the parting of the ways which change must bring.

She had spread her wings, but flying free had happened with ruthless speed as if the west wind had been waiting to whisk her away. There had been no time to contact Freddie, no time to prepare herself for the confluence of emotions that welled up from her as she sat alone on the bench overlooking Monterose. Like folds of butter muslin, the mist retreated across the Levels towards Hilbegut, allowing Kate a glimpse of the tall chimneys and copper beeches.

‘I’ve done it,’ she kept thinking, and then she pictured her parents’ grief-stricken faces. How could she tell them? How could she?

With the sun warm on her face, Kate sat listening to the sounds of Monterose. The town rang with voices and busy hammers, trotting horses and the scrape of cartwheels, but Kate was alert for the sound of a lorry. She tingled with the thought that she might see Freddie. Even to see him driving past would reassure her, just the sight of his profile, his cap, his big steady hands on the wheel, his expression calm and intent on driving. Even if he didn’t see her, she would know he was all right, she would feel that blend of peace and magic his presence evoked.

But she didn’t see him, and no lorries came up the hill past the hospital.

Kate took Bertie’s watch out of her handbag and put it to her ear. It was still ticking, and she had just one hour before the train would take her back on the long trip under the Severn Tunnel and into Gloucestershire. Was there time for a quick visit to the bakery? Impulsively she set off, walking and running along the slippery flagstone pavements, hoping she wouldn’t meet anyone who wanted to chat and keep her from the precious slice of time she might have with Freddie.

Annie was surprised to see the beautiful young stranger come into the shop. Her face was oddly familiar as she stood smartly behind the customer Annie was serving. Annie kept an eye on her while she wrapped bread and counted change, noticing how the girl’s big eyes were looking everywhere, over the shelves, out of the window, up at the ceiling, and even trying to peer past her into the scullery. The girl looked alarmingly confident and womanly.

‘What would you like?’ asked Annie when the customer had gone and the shop doorbell jingled shut.

Kate stepped forward eagerly and held out her hand. Annie searched her bright eyes and saw they were velvety amber and compelling. Annie often disliked people on sight, but the girl had a magnetism, a glow of light around her and she was beautifully dressed in a black suit with a blouse of a strawberry red colour, red shoes and bag. She gave Annie such a radiant smile that she found herself smiling back.

‘Are you Mrs Barcussy?’ she enquired. ‘Freddie’s mother?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m Kate Loxley. It’s lovely to meet you at last.’

The smile vanished from Annie’s face. That Loxley girl. Brazen hussy.

‘What a lovely shop you have here,’ said Kate enthusiastically. ‘You must work so hard!’

Annie drew herself up proudly. ‘I’ve always worked hard.’

‘And you make all this lovely bread? My family are cheese-makers. We ought to get together, shouldn’t we? Oh, and is this your DELICIOUS lardy cake? I must have a bit. I’ll buy some to take home.’ Unabashed by Annie’s suspicious stare and blunt manner, Kate chatted on. She admired the arrangement of daffodils and catkins on the counter. ‘Did you do this? I love pussy willow. It doesn’t grow much where I live now.’

Annie stood there with her lips disappearing into her face. She was furious with Kate Loxley. The girl had hurt her Freddie, not answering his letters, breaking his heart Annie thought bitterly. Making him go all that way across the ferry and have his terrible accident, and lose the motorbike he’d saved up for. Annie had worked herself into a fury against this girl who had the cheek to stand there, bold as brass, in her shop. She controlled herself with difficulty, wrapping the lardy cake a bit too vigorously and putting Kate’s change down on the counter with a petulant click.

‘Was there something else you wanted?’ she asked.

‘I’d like to see Freddie please. Is he here?’

‘No, he isn’t,’ said Annie triumphantly. ‘He’s gone up the alabaster quarry with Herbie. He won’t be back until late.’

Kate looked disappointed. ‘I’ve only got half an hour before my train back to Gloucestershire. I can’t stay. Will you tell him I called?’

‘Oh yes. I’ll tell him.’ Annie thawed just a little when she saw the sadness in Kate’s eyes.

‘I did so want to see him,’ she said, and her eyes glistened with some secret she wasn’t sharing. ‘But I’ve got a long journey home, and I must get back to my parents. Daddy is so ill, and they’re grieving, we all are. My sister Ethie was drowned in the River Severn.’ Kate’s voice went down and down, to a whisper, and Annie stood in silence, a battle going on inside her mind as the angry bitter thoughts collided with an incoming rush of maternal understanding. Kate was a human being, a young girl who had lost her home, and her sister. Annie opened her heart like she opened the front door, just a crack, and began to let her in.

‘I’m sorry about your sister,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’ Kate looked into Annie’s eyes, which were so like Freddie’s, cobalt blue with flecks of violet, and full of wordless insight. Freddie’s eyes were calm but Annie’s had tinges of anxiety, similar to Ethie’s, Kate thought. Anxiety masquerading as anger. ‘Is Freddie all right?’ she asked.

‘He is now,’ Annie replied proudly. ‘And . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I should ask you in for a cup of tea. He’d want me to.’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Kate warmly, ‘but I’ve a train to catch so I must go.’

Annie nodded. ‘I’ve got some more customers coming up the road. But – there’s something you should see, Kate, before you go.’ She opened the door to the garden. ‘You take a look out there and you’ll see what my Freddie’s been doing. Go on, it won’t take you a minute.’

Kate stepped out into the garden and her mouth fell open in astonishment.

‘Night and day he’ve worked,’ said Annie, ‘and that one there, that’s St Peter and it was commissioned by the church. ’Tis not quite finished yet.’

‘This is unbelievable.’ Kate stood looking around at the display of stone carvings. There was an owl, a squirrel, a collection of stone faces, and a tiny singing bird. She looked closely at the statue of St Peter, marvelling at the way Freddie had carved the peaceful face, the drape of his robe, the bunch of keys hanging from his belt. ‘It’s marvellous. I can’t believe Freddie has done all this. How exciting! I’m thrilled to bits. How wonderful. You must be so proud, Mrs Barcussy.’