Текст книги "The Boy with No Boots"

Автор книги: Sheila Jeffries

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Now he was nearly a man, and no one would comfort him at his father’s graveside. He would have to stand there, stiff and expressionless like Alice and Betty.

When he saw the two black horses turn into the street he had a terrible feeling of deep, deep cold. The power of death to suddenly strip the vigour out of the whole street was almost disabling.

He stood at the door, next to George who towered over him with his face set rigid. Freddie wanted something from the stranger who was his brother, warmth or eye contact or a touch on his arm, but there was none. He wanted to walk backwards in front of Annie, helping her as he had always done, but Alice and Betty had her in an iron grip, their fingers clamped onto her black shawl.

Loneliness engulfed Freddie, and it was the loneliness of being different. This was his family, but he wasn’t remotely like any of them, nor did he want to be. What he wanted most in that moment was to run away, to arrive at his father’s funeral from a different direction and watch it as a lone observer. He wanted to experience the funeral with the sky and the wind and the twisting flight of gathering swallows. He wanted to sit on the floor of the church and feel the music rumble through stone, and watch the faces of coloured glass and stone, watch and read their expression and feel their empathy. And he wanted to share his father’s journey into the unknown, into the silent land.

So he walked alone at the back of the black procession on its way to the cemetery, falling further and further behind, and he looked down from a great height and saw himself detaching, step by step, from the silver cords that bound the generations. He was alone. He saw his family drifting away from him on a river of forgetfulness, and he was glad to walk alone, his feet governed by the tolling of the church bell, his eyes gazing at a sparrow hawk hovering in the distance.

The silence of the funeral seemed to have a shape, an elongated elliptical space that extended ahead of the cortège and for some distance behind, the shape excluding the normal life of the street. Freddie kept within its boundary, close enough, but apart. George didn’t turn to see where he was, and Alice and Betty minced along – almost carrying Annie, the backs of their three heads bobbing in the wake of the hearse as it halted outside Monterose church. A group of people who had known Levi were at the entrance, hats in hand, and the vicar loomed like a heron inspecting an estuary.

Once, Annie had sent Freddie to Sunday school, and the teacher had refused to have him there again. ‘All he does is walk around and stare at the statues and the windows,’ she’d complained. ‘He won’t sit down with the others.’ Freddie had longed to go in there again but he’d never had time off from school, the bakery, the railway, and Annie’s endless errands.

He hung back as the coffin was unloaded – to the tolling of the bell, the jingle of the horses’ harness, and the shuffle of footsteps. The way the coffin was carried high on the shoulders of the pallbearers gave him a strange feeling of finality. His father’s body was inside. There was no going back. It was grim, and it was glorious. The majesty of the church was there for Levi, the stained glass and the brass eagle, the tapestries and the music. After all Levi’s work in the corn mill, his arthritis, his uncontrollable tempers, the broken china, the crying, the po-faced storytelling, the years in the bakery. After all that he was paraded into this magnificent building.

Freddie was last to go into the church, and he noticed that Gladys was there, looking at him with a blend of concern and disapproval. Ignoring her, he lifted his eyes to appraise the wood carvings in the roof, and to gaze at his favourite window which had a saint with a halo underneath a tree of the richest emerald greens, a white curly lamb at his feet, a scarlet cloak and a golden sword at his belt.

‘You should sit with your family. Up there,’ Gladys whispered loudly, but no one looked round. Freddie ignored her, and walked to the back of the church where he sat down on the stone step leading into the bell tower. From there he could see the entire church, his father’s coffin and the backs of heads. The vicar’s voice droned, the congregation stood up to sing, but Freddie closed his eyes, touched the stone floor with his hands, and went into a trance.

Through his sensitive fingers he could feel the earth below the church. It had energy like an arrow of light fired into the rocks, a sound that resonated for miles and miles through the land, through churches and castles and monuments far away. And he could feel water down there, the secret wells and springs winding, branching like arteries of silver through the dark of the earth.

The drone of the funeral service cushioned his senses like moss. Freddie stayed in his blessed trance, and then he saw something so amazing that he wanted to leap to his feet. Shining in the gloom of the church was an angel of light stretching from floor to ceiling. Its wings were rays of gold fanning out from wall to wall. Its skirt was a cone of radiance covering the whole congregation. The face was so bright that the features were invisible, only a feeling of omnipotent mysterious love emanated through the angel’s resplendent being. Under its brightness, the people sat like dominoes, wooden and unresponsive.

Freddie held his breath. He longed to shout out in a loud voice, a voice louder than him. But all his young life he’d been told: No. You mustn’t. You shouldn’t. Don’t you dare.

The shades came down, the angel vanished, and the words of his father’s favourite hymn reclaimed his consciousness:

‘Rock of ages cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in thee.’

Freddie thought about the words: ‘Let me hide myself.’ Wasn’t that what he’d been doing all his life? Hiding himself. Hiding his soul. And why? Because of Harry Price. Because of Levi smashing china over the accusation of his son telling lies. It hadn’t been lies.

As the hymn progressed into the final verse, Freddie felt rebellious. Sad as he was to lose his father, Levi’s death had liberated him. He was nearly a man now, his voice was deepening and he longed to use it, to feel its new full rumbling power in the echoing church. He hadn’t joined in the singing, but now he stood up and waited for the silence that would follow the hymn.

Empowered by his solitary stance and his golden vision, Freddie took a deep breath and felt his voice rise up from the bowels of the earth. He didn’t need to shout. The voice was effortlessly resonant.

‘I saw an angel,’ he declared. ‘A golden angel shining over all of you, here in this church.’

The heads turned, the mouths dropped open, a hundred accusing eyes stared down the church at Freddie. Even Levi’s coffin seemed to tremble, the feathers of the brass eagle bristled, and someone’s hymnbook crashed to the floor like a shot pigeon.

Once he started, Freddie couldn’t stop.

‘I’m not a liar,’ he said quietly.

The ‘shades of the prison-house’ began to crack around him, letting in chinks of light, bright glimpses of the kind of life that freedom could bring.

‘And,’ he added, his voice gathering strength as he let go of his final issue, ‘I am NOT going to be a baker.’

He’d said it. The shades of the prison-house collapsed into rubble, and through the rising dust, George crossed the church like a leopard, seized Freddie by the collar and frog-marched him outside.

Out in the sunshine he slammed Freddie against the blue-lias stones of the porch.

‘Don’t you bring shame on the Barcussy family.’ The words came spitting and sputtering from between George’s big yellowy teeth, and with each word he shoved Freddie harder into the wall. ‘I am the head of the family now. You’ll do as you’re told – BOY.’

Shaken, Freddie looked into George’s furious eyes, and saw that Levi was right inside him, looking out.

Chapter Eleven

HE WHO DARES

On the morning of Freddie’s sixteenth birthday, he got up in the dark as usual, climbed into his clothes and lit a candle. He held it up to the window to observe the way it glistened on the fern-like patterns of ice on the inside of the glass. With his fingernail he scraped out a peep hole and peered outside at the moonlight shining on frosted branches and rooftops. His heart was thumping with excitement. Today was the day. He must keep his nerves steady, act as if everything was normal. He’d worked it all out beforehand, choosing a time when George had gone to the pub. First he’d smuggled an empty flour sack upstairs and hidden it.

George wasn’t good at early starts. He slept heavily, often after a night out drinking, leaving the early morning bread-making to Annie and Freddie. This morning Freddie had made sure he was up first.

He slid the flour sack from under his mattress, snagging it on the rusted metal springs which groaned and twanged in the silent house. Gingerly he lifted the floor-boards and a musty mouldy smell was released into his room. Reaching inside he withdrew his bundles of coins, all twenty-six of them, tied into old socks, hankies and bits of rag, glad that he’d tied them tightly to stop the coins jingling. Over the years he’d counted and recorded each bundle on a strip of cardboard, and he knew approximately how much he had. Enough for what he was going to do. The only things he’d bought for himself were a pencil, a drawing book and a penknife.

Freddie paused to listen. Only one lot of snoring, and it was Annie. He didn’t know if George was awake or not, so he waited, the raised floorboard propped in his hand. George was too close, just next door in the back room overlooking the garden. Reassured by the silence Freddie stuffed the bundles of money into the flour sack and gathered the top with a piece of string. He lowered the floorboard back into its slot.

Heaving the sack with both hands, he struggled down the steep stairs, bumping it on every step. He was breathing hard and the tips of his fingers ached with frost. The candle was left flickering in its metal holder at the top of the stairs.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ George’s voice rumbled out of the dark, and the sofa springs twanged and creaked. Freddie could see the shadow of him rising, throwing his blanket aside. A sour stench of alcohol filled the room, a bottle glinted on the floor.

Freddie hadn’t expected George to be downstairs on the sofa, and awake. What could he say? Tell George how sick he felt at the way he was spending the bakery’s hard-earned profit on booze? Tell him to mind his own business? He set his mouth in a stubborn line and locked his mind into the power of silence. Moving calmly, as if he had all the time in the world, he fetched the candle down the stairs and put it on the scullery table.

George was standing at the bottom of the stairs, yawning, and looking at the sack of money.

‘What you got in there, baby brother?’ He gave the sack a kick with his toe and Freddie noted he didn’t have his boots on. That gave him a chance. He thought quickly, unravelling his carefully laid plans. His intentions had been to put the money sack into the front box of the bicycle, camouflage it with loaves of bread and appear to set off on his rounds as normal. That wouldn’t work now.

‘I said – what’s in that sack?’ hissed George putting his beer-soaked face close to Freddie’s cheeks. His breath steamed in the candlelight. ‘Answer me, baby brother.’

He pushed Freddie against the wall and a picture fell down with a crash. It was a sepia photograph of Levi which Annie was proud of, and now the whites of his eyes gleamed up at them through cracked glass. Freddie ignored George and calmly picked up the picture, propping it on the scullery table. He could feel the anger in George’s clenched fists, and he just looked at him steadily. George had tried many times to get him to fight, but Freddie wouldn’t. He’d stand there, silent and still, and something in his gaze always stopped George in his tracks, a becalming blend of obstinacy and peace, something George didn’t have. Freddie knew it confused him, and that he would cover the confusion with a volley of verbal abuse.

George bent down and fumbled with the neck of the sack. He had clumsy hands like Levi, and in the ice-cold air his fingers were too stiff to untie the string, so he patted the Hessian sides. It jingled a little, and a puff of flour dust rose into the candlelight.

‘Ah!’ George’s eyes sparked with suspicion. ‘That’d feel like money. You got a sack of money, baby brother? Where d’you get that from? Been stealing it, have you? Stealing the takings. Pilfering. What you gonna do with it, baby brother? Run away to London?’

‘I earned it,’ said Freddie quietly. ‘Every penny. Carrying luggage at the station. I’ve saved it up for three years. It’s mine. And I’m doing what I like with it, George.’

He looked George squarely in the eyes. Creaking, shuffling sounds of Annie getting up came from the stairs. Both men looked up at the faint strip of light under her door.

‘Now,’ thought Freddie. ‘Do it now.’ With his freezing hands he grabbed the sack and heaved it into the bicycle, seized his coat and flung it on top. Puffing and wheezing from the effort, he shoved the back door open, and grappled the heavy bike outside.

‘Good riddance,’ shouted George, standing on the mat in his socks.

Freddie mounted the bike and pedalled into the darkness, the handlebars swinging awkwardly with the weight of his sack of money. With no lights front or back, he was glad of the moon’s brilliance which cast a lattice of shadows across the street. Everything looked black or silver, the frozen puddles on the rough road had yellowish curls and flaked white edges to their mirror-like surface. The church clock struck five, its chimes slicing through the sub-zero air. It was a Monday in February, Freddie’s sixteenth birthday, and his plan had gone badly wrong. Instead of working in the warm bakery, he was out in the hoar frost. It wouldn’t be light for two hours, and he’d got nowhere to go.

The frost burned his ears and crystallised under his collar, between the buttons of his jacket and up his sleeves, which were too short for him. It grazed the back of his throat and etched its sharpness deep into his lungs. He paused in the market square to blow on his hands, which were now completely numb and locked onto the handlebars. Obviously he couldn’t stay out there for two hours. He had to find a warm refuge for himself, his bike and his bag of money.

No lights shone from any of the houses or shops, and the square which was so busy during the day was deserted except for a bunch of rats scuttling along the base of the church wall. Freddie inspected the church porch. It was clammy and unfriendly. He thought about the station waiting-room which usually had a welcoming fire, and decided to go there.

The old bread bike had no brakes and with the heavy bag of money in the front it careered down the station hill like a toboggan. Freddie stuck his long legs out straight, his hobnailed boots striking sparks along the road, making a lot of noise, and he arrived breathless at the station railings. He felt like laughing out loud. No one was around as he wheeled the bike onto the platform, and the moonlight gleamed on the rails. He turned the brass knob of the waiting-room door and, to his great joy, it was unlocked. The smell of coal and leather lingered in the air and it felt warm as he pushed the bike inside and stood there in heavy darkness. A faint red glow came from the embers of the fireplace.

Freddie carried the clanking coal bucket outside and helped himself to some chunks of the silvery coal stacked in the yard. Then he re-lit the fire and sat toasting his face and hands against its cheerful flame. The first train was not until eight o’clock, so he had plenty of time to luxuriate by the roaring fire, guard his bag of money, and reassemble his daring plan.

Annie was distraught when she discovered Freddie had gone. She ranted at George as they made the bread together.

‘How could you let ’im go out in the frost and the dark like that, George? What were you thinking?’

‘I couldn’t stop him,’ protested George as he stoked the coke oven vigorously.

‘He’s not strong, our Freddie, he suffers with bronchitis,’ said Annie. ‘He’s not like you, George. He never had what you had, a healthy childhood and good food. He grew up in the wartime and he suffered – oh you should’ve seen his little feet. Covered in blisters, all septic they were, from wearing clogs. You never had to do that, did you?’

‘No,’ agreed George shortly, ‘but you’d no business having another baby at your age, Mother, and with the war coming.’

Annie bristled. ‘Don’t you dare tell me that. We didn’t know the war was coming. And Freddie was born easy. He’s a lovely boy, lovely, been so good to me he has. You were always jealous of him, George, don’t ask me why. And the girls – they never wanted to be bothered with Freddie, had their heads full of fancy hats and silly dancing. My Freddie, he’s done more for me than any of you lot.’ She pounded a batch of dough, flapping it over on the floured tabletop and digging her knuckles into it. All the time she was watching the door and listening for Freddie to return.

‘He wouldn’t have gone out like that – in the DARK – without breakfast, George. What did you say to him?’

‘Nothing much. Just asked him about the sack of money he had. He woke me up, banging it down the stairs. What was he doing with a hoard like that, smuggling it out at that time of the morning? Looks suspicious to me. Very suspicious.’ George plunged his hands into a bowl of water, took the bar of Sunlight soap and started washing the coal dust from his arms. ‘There’s something odd about that boy, Mother. You can’t see it.’

Annie’s cheeks flushed with frustration. ‘Freddie is not odd,’ she said, frowning at George. ‘You’ve never taken the trouble to get to know him. He’s clever, and he’s artistic’

‘Artistic!’ George’s voice went up an octave. ‘What good is that?’

‘Who are you to judge? Freddie’s been miserable in this bakery, I know that. It’s not what he wants. He wants to be a mechanic. And surely you could have helped him? Fine brother you’ve been, and now look at you – boozing and wasting your money. Shame on you.’

George shrugged.

‘And don’t you shrug your shoulders at me.’ Annie was getting more and more upset. She felt like a kettle about to boil over with two years of unexpressed grief at losing Levi. Two years of extreme anxiety when Freddie had quietly gone on helping her the way he always had. Suddenly she felt engulfed by remorse. She’d never even told Freddie how much she appreciated him, she’d never said thank you to him, and today it was his birthday. She looked at his present sitting on the dresser, wrapped in brown paper. It was a pair of gloves she’d knitted him. How badly he would need them now, out there somewhere in the deathly cold. Annie began to tremble with anxiety.

‘Don’t treat me like a child, Mother. I’m a man now,’ said George, and then he added something that demolished the remains of Annie’s self-control. ‘I expect he’s run away to London. You’ll probably never see him again.’

Annie collapsed into a chair with a howl of anguish. She put her head in her hands and the tears erupted from her hot face, the sobs deep, deep down in her body. Her crying was loud and harrowing in the bakery, as if her sorrow was going everywhere, across the table, into the neat trays of uncooked loaves and buns, into the waiting ovens and the listening stones of the cottage walls.

George was shocked. He’d never seen his mother cry, even when Levi had died. She’d always been rock solid and in control. And now she was crying – over Freddie! He walked over to her, and put his hand on her humped shoulders.

‘There – don’t cry. I didn’t mean to . . .’

‘Yes you did,’ accused Annie and her eyes burned up at him like two cracks of sapphire. ‘Freddie’s left because of you. You’ve treated him bad – BAD. And he won’t come back when you’re here, George. You’ve made him hate you. I wouldn’t treat a dog like you’ve treated him.’

George picked up a tray of loaves and started to slide them into the oven, and Annie cried even louder.

‘LEAVE THE BREAD,’ she shouted. ‘It’s me you should care about, and your brother.’ She pushed her chair back and stood up, facing George with her chin and her ample bust lifted imperiously, her eyes steady again and in control. ‘I think you’d better leave, George. You get on that smelly motorbike and go home, back to Yeovil, and don’t come here again until you can look me in the eye and apologise. From the heart. Go on. Just GO.’

‘And who’s going to deliver this bread?’ George raised his eyebrows and went on stacking the oven.

‘Just GO,’ said Annie. ‘I don’t care about the bread. I don’t care if it’s burnt to a cinder. I care about my Freddie.’

‘You’ve got flour in your hair,’ said George lightly. But when he saw the ultimatum in Annie’s eyes, he brushed the flour from his own hands, hung up the cloth he was holding, and took his coat from the back of the door.

‘All right. I’ll go. But don’t come running to me next time you want help.’

Annie stood at the window like a stone statue, her hands at her sides, her eyes watching the February sunrise over Monterose, the red sky brightening over crystallised rooftops, glinting on icicles which hung in long strips from the eaves, and she watched the steam from the first early trains come curling through the town. She drew the curtains and looked out at the back garden where the moon was sinking into the west, its marble face tinged with rosy pink.

She went upstairs and stood in Freddie’s bedroom. Mechanically she made his bed and sat down on it, staring bleakly around at the whitewashed walls. The picture of Granny Barcussy looked knowingly at her. Annie had never liked Levi’s mother. She’d been too bubbly for Annie’s way of being; she’d found it hard to tolerate her enthusiasm for life and the bewitching effect she had on Freddie.

George’s words rang in her head, but she couldn’t believe Freddie had run away to London. He’d be back in a few hours, she was sure, her frightened mind refusing to even consider what she would do if he never came back. Annie picked up Freddie’s precious drawing book and turned the pages, marvelling at his detailed pictures of birds. There were owls and herons, and one of a hawk hovering high in the air above a speeding train. There were cows and horses, drawn from all angles, always moving. The book was nearly full, and towards the end Freddie had drawn motorbikes, cars and steam engines in meticulous detail. Annie frowned, and turned back again to the first page. There was a message hidden in the sequence of pictures, some clue about Freddie’s secret life, something she’d been missing. Looking deeper into the pictures, Annie saw that on every page was the face of a beautiful young girl, the girl on the Shire horse. Freddie had cleverly hidden her in his pictures. She would be sitting under a tree, or standing on a bridge or looking down from the clouds, always with her hair blowing in the wind. Freddie had never told his mother who she was, but Annie felt she was alive, looking at her from the pages of his drawing book.

She closed the book, smoothed it and put it back on his bedside table. New and startling thoughts came into her mind. Freddie was sixteen. He would want a life of his own, a wife maybe. How would she live without him? To Annie those thoughts were like a firebox. Open the lid and tongues of flame would come writhing out. She smelled burning, slammed the box shut and refused to look at the smoke seeping through the cracks, refused to acknowledge that one day the box would no longer contain that smouldering fire. She sat rocking herself on the edge of Freddie’s bed. It was nine o’clock and the smell of burning was real.

‘The bread!’ Annie gasped and struggled down the narrow staircase as fast as she could in her creaking slippers. The bakery was full of acrid smoke. She flung the door open and let it escape into the street. Then she opened the ovens and took out tray after tray of loaves and buns, all burned black and smoking.

‘Oh, what have I done?’ she wailed, slamming around with trays of charcoaled remains, brittle black shells of what should have been lovely sweet smelling buns. These were so dangerously hot that she hurled the trays outside into the back garden and left them. She began talking to herself, ‘You keep calm now. Just keep calm, get on and clear up the mess.’

By now, Freddie should have been out on his rounds with fresh loaves in the front of the bike. She would be stacking the shelves and getting the shop ready to open. Customers were already walking up the street, muffled in furry hats and scarves, willow baskets over one arm, breath steaming in the morning air. As usual, the first customer was Gladys. She knocked on the window and peered in.

‘Are you all right, Annie?’

Annie hesitated. She wanted to hide for the rest of the day. She didn’t want to face those expectant customers and admit she’d burned the bread. She sighed resignedly.

‘No peace for the wicked,’ she said, and, shamefaced, she let Gladys in.

‘Pooh. What a smeech!’ Gladys came in with her reassuring busybody manner. ‘What ’ave ’e done?’

‘Burnt the bread.’

‘Where’s Freddie?’

‘Out on the bike.’

Gladys eyed her knowingly. ‘Come on. I’ll help you,’ she said, and without waiting to be invited she took off her chocolate-brown hat, coat and gloves, rolled up her sleeves and set about scraping charcoal out of the ovens. ‘I’ll do this. You make some more dough. Put a notice in the window saying NO BREAD UNTIL MIDDAY.’

Annie looked at her gratefully. Trembling inside, she made herself get on with it. The two women scrubbed and scraped and by lunchtime a new batch of bread was in the oven. But there was no sign of Freddie.

Annie gave Gladys a generous basket of free bread and a warm thank you. Inside she wished she was like Gladys, always cheerful and out there helping people.

‘So where’s Freddie?’ Gladys asked, putting her coat on to leave. ‘It’s nearly two o’clock.’

‘He’ll be back later,’ said Annie, avoiding the concerned eyes.

‘Hmmm.’ Gladys gave her a shrewd stare and left, waddling down the street with her basket. The winter sun shone hazily, and a song thrush sang for a short interval, but the frost had hardly melted. By three o’clock Annie had sold the limited stock of bread to disgruntled customers. She closed the shop and stood in the doorway, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, her eyes looking up and down the street, watching for Freddie to appear amongst the jumble of horse-drawn carts and motorcars. She could feel the cold closing in, coming down with the night. Too upset to eat, she dragged a chair to the window and sat, endlessly, hopelessly watching, a hollow loneliness in her heart.

‘Abandoned, that’s what I am,’ she thought, ‘abandoned and unwanted.’

As twilight fell, she lit the two gas lamps and a few candles, her hands shaking with gathering fear. Freddie was not coming back. Her worst nightmare was coming true. She would be alone, housebound, with no one to help her. A prisoner, that’s what she would be. Despair and fear of insanity were already claiming her. She imagined the asylum with its miserable corridors and clanking, cream-painted beds, the wailing of madness around her, the unsmiling faces of doctors. A world without kindness, without love.

Annie remained sitting in the window, immersed in gloomy predictions. What had happened to all the love and the hard work she’d put into her life? Was it out there, somewhere roving around, wasted like time and spent like money? What would God do with her now?

‘How can you do this to me, Freddie?’ she whispered. ‘Wasn’t I a good mother?’

The tears were brewing again. She watched two bright headlights coming slowly up the street, a big motor vehicle with its wheels bouncing over the potholes. She heard the gears grind, the brakes squeak, and the lorry shuddered to a halt, to her alarm, right outside the bakery door. She watched, horrified, as the driver got out and slammed the door shut. A tall figure walked towards the door. She saw his face in the lamplight, a face glowing red and a smile bigger than itself.

‘Freddie!’ she screamed. ‘My Freddie!’

She threw her arms around him and gazed up at his face, noticing for the first time that he was much taller than her, and his eyes were sparkling with secrets waiting to be told.

‘I can’t believe it’s you. You’re not cold.’ Annie touched his coat and smelled a new smell on him. Oil.

‘’Course it’s me, Mother,’ he beamed. ‘And – I bought a lorry.’

‘You did WHAT?’

Freddie could feel the shock waves emanating from his Mother. He sat down at the kitchen table, took his cap off and pushed his hair back from his brow. His face ached with unaccustomed smiling.

‘Well – first, I didn’t intend to go out like that, in the dark, mother. But George wasn’t too happy about my bag of money.’

‘He’s gone home.’

‘For good?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Annie, non-committedly. She looked out the window at the shadowy bulk of the lorry standing there in the dusk.

‘It’s a Scammell,’ said Freddie. ‘I was lucky to get it.’

‘Ah. You were.’ Annie was still trying to take it in. ‘Did you have enough money?’

‘Yes, and some left over for petrol.’

‘I know. You’ve been saving for a long time.’ Annie’s eyes smiled at Freddie, and her mouth moved just a little. She knew about his secret hoard under the floorboard. Sometimes she’d stealthily opened it up and added a few pennies or a shilling when Freddie was out, so she smiled to herself. Then something else occurred to her. ‘But you can’t drive.’

Freddie grinned. ‘I thought about that. I’m sixteen and the law says that when you’re sixteen you can drive. But I didn’t know how, so I asked Joan Jarvis to give me a lesson, and she did.’

‘You did WHAT?’ Annie said again, dropping the wooden spoon she’d been holding. ‘You asked JOAN JARVIS of all people?’