by Emma Davies
Blackberry Way
Emma Davies
Copyright © Emma Davies 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owners.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 1
From her vantage point just beyond the war memorial, Laura was able to watch Freya come and go with interest. Laura had seen her several times over the past few weeks and, at first, Freya had been completely oblivious of anyone’s presence; but on a couple of occasions now, Laura had been caught unawares and Freya had seen her, giving her a beaming smile. She was only glad that today she had chosen to leave Boris behind. The dog had a habit of drawing attention, purely down to his enormous size, whereas Laura was tiny enough to lose herself behind a gravestone or in the shadow of a hedge. His absence gave Laura the opportunity to observe Freya unnoticed.
She’d only ever met Freya’s father once or twice, but she knew the family – everyone did hereabouts – and a quick check of the headstone that Freya visited had confirmed what she already knew. She didn’t exactly remember him dying, but she had seen the freshly-dug grave well over a year ago, and had felt for Freya. Death was never an easy thing, especially for one so young and alone, and although Laura didn’t know Freya at all, she knew of her, and in Laura’s world that was generally enough. The family were well liked locally; they had a history and a tradition in the town which Laura approved of.
In all the time since his death, the grave had been well tended and yet she hadn’t seen Freya in the churchyard until these last few weeks. People were creatures of habit and, as with most regular occurrences in their lives, like shopping, or going for a walk, visiting the grave of a loved one was most often undertaken on the same day or days and at roughly the same time. It was one of the things that made Laura feel safe; that way she knew what to expect. Something must have changed for Freya to alter her pattern of visits, and it wasn’t until a few days ago when Laura had both arms plunged deep into a hedgerow, rooting out the juiciest blackberries that she realised how busy Freya must be with the apple harvest. Since then she had kept a wary eye.
Freya smiled as she pushed open the gate to the churchyard. The slanting early-morning sun had risen just high enough to touch the cobweb that hung from the lichen-covered wood and light up the dew-drop-covered strands like a diamond choker.
She took a deep breath in the damp air. She loved mornings like this when the mist swirled about her feet as she walked, knowing that in an hour or so it would lift to reveal a beautiful day, full of the colours she liked best. For now, the churchyard held a muted beauty and, as she made her way between the graves, she let her thoughts wander towards the coming day.
October was when the hard work really began at Appleyard. The orchards had been quietly soaking up the sun and the rain all year, and now the apples were so ripe the trees were ready to offer them up like a gift; a reward for Freya’s continued care and patience. Only this year had been different of course. This year her father no longer walked the rows of trees, but instead her beloved Sam. Her heart lifted at the thought that in a few short weeks she would be visiting this church again, but by the time she left, it would be as Sam’s wife.
One short year ago it had all been so different. She had come to the churchyard then, alone and frightened for her future, trying to cope with the all-consuming grief of losing her dad, and the threat of losing Appleyard, the house she had lived in all her life; her livelihood, and her stronghold. It had taken the wisdom of a curly-haired stranger to change all that, not only to bring Sam back to her, but life back to the orchards too. It was at about this time of year that Amos had arrived, walking up her drive to offer help with the harvest in return for food and a bed in her barn. He’d stayed until Christmas, until the wind had blown him on his way again, but there wasn’t a day when Freya didn’t long to see him one more time, to thank him for all that he had brought her.
She stopped in front of a small, neat headstone, tucked into the corner of the cemetery, and bent to her knees.
‘Morning, Dad,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘And how are you this morning? It’s going to be another beautiful day.’
She put down the bag she was carrying, her fingers automatically moving to collect the wilted blooms that filled the vases in front of the headstone. She lifted them to one side ready to dispose of. Then she rummaged in her bag for a pair of secateurs and began to gently clip away the faded heads of the bedding plants that she had planted in the late spring.
‘I’ve brought you some Cyclamen today, Dad. I know you’ll look after them much better than I can. I still can’t manage to keep them alive, but I liked the colours.’
Freya’s fingers were a little cold, but she worked quickly, keeping up a steady stream of chatter as she did so. Sometimes she had the place to herself and sometimes not, but it never bothered her that others might be able to hear what she was saying. This was her time with her dad, and that was that.
‘You should see the fields, Dad; they look amazing. I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t start harvesting a couple of weeks early. The late burst of sunny weather we’ve been having is more than we could have wished for, and the juice presses are working overtime at the moment. That’s why I’ve come so early today, so I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got to get back to give Sam a hand. Right, I’ll be back in a minute.’
She gathered up the clippings and brown petals into a couple of sheets of newspaper and rose to take them to the small composting heap at the rear of the church. A trail of footprints through the dewy grass lay off to one side, and she followed their direction, trying to catch a glimpse of their owner.
Over the past few weeks as Freya’s days had become busier, and her visits to her dad were earlier in the day, she had noticed another frequent visitor to the churchyard; a young woman, who looked much the same age as she, though tiny in stature. They had exchanged smiles on occasion, or at least Freya had, but they’d never spoken, and for some reason she intrigued Freya. It was her dog that Freya had noticed first: a huge Irish wolfhound that was almost as tall as the woman herself, and after that Freya found herself looking out for the slight figure with the beautiful heart-shaped face and huge almond eyes. She had an air of sadness about her, which was perhaps not unusual given the setting, but in all the times Freya had seen her she had been in a different part of the churchyard, tending to a different grave, which was perhaps slightly odd. She lay flowers and wreaths, talking all the while just like Freya did, but whether this was to herself or the occupants of the ground beneath her Freya didn’t know.
Today, apart from the footprints in the grass, Freya could see no sign of her, and placing her wilted flowers and clippings on the compost heap, she returned to finish her own tidying.
Ten minutes or so later she was done. She couldn’t stay too long; day was going to be lengthy as it was, and the sooner she got back to Appleyard, the sooner she could give Sam a hand with the myriad tasks that needed attention.
‘I’ll be back on Sunday, Dad, so you make sure you keep out of trouble until then, won’t you?’
She touched her fingers to her lips and placed them on top of the white marble headstone for a moment before getting to her feet.
‘Bye Dad,’ she called.
The sun was fully around the side of the church by the time Freya made her way back down the main path to the lane outside. It lit up the wet grass, setting it sparkling and she stopped for a moment to watch a robin whose beady eye was also on the ground, although for an entirely different reason. As she watched, it flew to perch on a gravestone for a second before swooping to the freshly-turned earth in front of it. The little bird darted off again, a prize worm in its mouth, but not before something else had caught Freya’s eye. Aside from the late flowering geraniums planted there, a beautiful wreath had been laid upon the grave, and Freya’s feet moved towards it before she could stop herself.
She had spent the last few weeks endlessly searching through images on the internet and in wedding magazines for something which resembled the idea she had in her head; an idea which was refusing to go away until satisfied. None of the pictures she had seen had quite captured the look she was trying to achieve and, with their wedding at the end of the month, she was getting short on time. Everything was too ordered, too uniform. She wanted her wedding flowers to be exuberant, a little unruly even, but above everything else, a celebration of the season and their harvest. The wreath lying in front of her was all these things and more, and Freya’s heart began to beat a little faster. This was exactly what she had been looking for.
With a quick glance around her she dropped to her knees, reaching out with tentative fingers to trace the outline of the leaves and to touch the vibrant berries and fruits; bright orange hips, the rosy red of crab apples, the deep purple damsons. Freya had never seen anything quite like it. It looked home-made and, although some of the leaves seemed to have been preserved in glycerine, the rest of the wreath looked as if it had been plucked from the hedgerow that morning. Her head darted up again, scanning the churchyard for any sign of life, but whoever had laid this wreath was long gone; Freya was on her own.
She checked her watch, grimacing at the time, and reluctantly stood up. She must get on with her day, but one thing was suddenly very clear in her mind; even if she had to stake out the churchyard, somehow, she would get to know the maker of this beautiful wreath, and she had just over three weeks to do it.
Laura liked having the churchyard to herself. This early in the morning there were rarely any other visitors, and those that had come, so far, had obeyed the unwritten rules of the churchyard. Grief was such a personal thing. It was private, unobtrusive. It swathed those suffering from it in a cloak of invisibility, made them unapproachable, even among their own kind. People didn’t talk about death. Eyes remained downcast, conversations were muted, and voices kept low; this had always been Laura’s experience, until Freya started coming to visit.
She had never got close enough to Freya to make out what she was saying, but she could see her lips moving and her arms waving and she knew that during the whole time she visited her dad, the words never stopped. Nothing unusual about that as such; lots of people talked to their loved ones during visits, but what was rare was that Freya didn’t seem to obey the unwritten rules. She laughed, she spoke in a normal voice, her mouth was open and expressive, not closed and tightened as most people’s were when they whispered or spoke softly, embarrassed. She spoke to her father as if he was standing next to her, even cocking her head to one side and listening for his reply. Freya greeted other people in the churchyard too, and not the scurrying polite head nod that most people achieved, but a broad, smiling greeting and it unnerved Laura a great deal.
Today though, as Laura watched the young woman leave the churchyard, she had seen something else. Something that she recognised in herself, and which intrigued her even more. Freya had stopped by one of the wreaths Laura had made, and in that singular moment it was as if everything else around Freya, save for the wreath, had paled from view. It was a sensation Laura often felt herself, particularly on a day like today when the colour of the landscape, or of a particular leaf transfixed her with wonder. Freya had reached out, almost holding her breath and the reverent look on her face touched something very familiar in Laura. In a matter of moments Freya had gone, but she had left behind something that Laura hadn’t felt in a long time, and a tiny, but nonetheless vital spark began to glow.
Chapter 2
Laura was just about to pop another chocolate into her mouth when two hairy feet landed on the work surface beside her as Boris made his presence known. Reluctantly she returned the chocolate to the tray in front of her, moving it swiftly out of the dog’s reach. Despite the fact that they would do him no good at all, he seemed particularly attracted to these and, whenever she made them, would try every trick in the book to try to pinch one. So far she had managed to evade his wily ways.
‘Is that my shopping?’ she queried the dog, with a glance at her watch as she moved out into the hallway. Sure enough she could see the outline of someone through the frosted half glass in her door. The figure was too tall to be her usual delivery driver, but she pulled open the door anyway.
A rather nervous looking young man stood there with a stack of plastic crates on a trolley.
Sometimes Laura played a little game with them, when she was feeling in a particularly ruthless mood, but today had been a good one so she smiled benevolently.
‘Can you just pop them here?’ she said, indicating a spot just beyond her door mat. ‘That’ll be fine.’
She gave Boris a stern command to sit while she ferried the bags back and forth to her kitchen, each time returning to give the delivery man a polite smile as he handed her more. When she had finished she held out her hand to sign for the delivery and bade him a cheerful goodbye. He hadn’t spoken once, but at least he hadn’t shouted, thought Laura.
She realised her mistake as soon as she picked up the last bag. While it contained some breakfast cereal, a bottle of washing up liquid, a bag of rice and some lentils, it did not contain her two loaves of bread. Why on earth had she let the driver go without checking things first like she usually did? It didn’t happen very often admittedly, but, on the few occasions that something had been missing from her order, it had always been discovered, still on the van, in a rogue bag that had somehow become separated from the rest. Now she would have to go and buy more. A delicious leek and potato soup had also been on the day’s agenda and she couldn’t bear the thought of eating it without fresh bread.
Laura picked up a clean tea towel and draped it over the chocolates, snatching one up at the last minute and stuffing it into her mouth. She reached up to the hook on the back door and took down the dog lead that hung there.
‘Come on Boris,’ she called. ‘Walkies… again!’
It was just over a mile and a half into the village, so by the time she got back she would have lost most of the afternoon, but at least she wouldn’t have to go out again later in the day. A couple of new books had been delivered yesterday and she was looking forward to an evening reading. Taking that route into the village also meant that she could check to see how the bilberries along the edge of the Williams’ wood were coming along. By her reckoning they should be pretty much perfect.
Stephen wasn’t entirely sure he was enjoying exercise yet, but he had stuck at it, and it was getting easier. He was notching up several miles a day on his bike now, and even Long Lane hill didn’t torture him quite as much anymore. He was almost at the top now, and looking forward to cresting the rise. On a day like today it was easy to see why people enjoyed cycling. The wind was almost non-existent; the air still warmed by the sun but with just enough bite to feel refreshi
ng, and the view from the top of the hill would make everything worthwhile. The road sloped downwards, straight and true before disappearing around a sharp left-hand bend at the bottom. On one side, rich red earth stretched out in glistening furrows as far as he could see, and on the other the deep blue of the sky was filled with majestic red, orange and yellow leaves from the trees that bordered the road.
He heard the car before he saw it, the engine roaring as it changed up into third and then fourth gear. He didn’t think it was behind him, but as yet Stephen couldn’t see where it was coming from. It was unusual enough to meet cars down this lane; it was narrow and there was a much quicker road away from the village that took most of the traffic, but the vehicles that did use it were never travelling this fast. His bike was building up speed as he travelled downhill, and he braked automatically, trying to retract his feet from the toe clips that held his feet fast on the pedals. One came loose almost immediately, but Stephen had always found the other much harder to disengage. He hadn’t been riding for that long and didn’t quite have the knack yet. Something told him that he would need to stop soon though, and pretty quickly, judging by the speed the car must be going. With his feet stuck in clips there was only one possible outcome and Stephen knew from bitter experience that it would be painful.
He was still wrestling with his pedal when the car shot around the bend at the bottom of the road. By now Stephen was almost half way down the lane himself and as the car tore into the thick hedge at the side of the road, he could see that the driver had lost control and out of instinct yanked the steering wheel away from hedge, propelling the car onto the other side of the road and straight into his path. As he frantically tried to free his left foot he leant on his own brakes, making for the other side of the road. A flash of colour caught his eye as he swerved, an automatic yell leaving his lips in warning as, too late, he registered the slight figure in front of him calmly picking something from the bushes.