The Boy with No Boots (22 page)

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.

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?’