A New Beginning

by A New Beginning (retail) (epub)

  ‘Lucky I brought extra cups,’ Connie replied. While she unpacked the thermos and the food she had brought, Geoff went to see Bob.

  ‘A bit soggy for digging, isn’t it, Bob?’ Geoff said as the man looked up and waved.

  ‘A bit of sun will soon dry it. I want to get the onion sets in this week if I can. All right,’ he said with a groan, ‘I know there isn’t anyone living here, but there’s no point in waiting till there is. It’ll be too late for many crops if it isn’t started now. Got anyone in mind?’

  Geoff hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No hurry, I’ll find someone soon.’

  They worked together for a while, Bob explaining what they needed to buy if they were to keep the gardens in order. He pointed out the rows marked with paper flags, where carrots and salad crops were already in the ground.

  ‘I really should pay you for all the hours you work, Bob.’

  ‘No need. I take what Kitty and I need, and I enjoy it. Besides, it would be a pity to let it all go back to how it once was.’

  As they drank the tea and ate the cakes Connie had brought, Bob said, ‘You know you might get some cabbage plants at the market in Maes Hir. Cheaper there than the shops.’

  At once Connie offered to go. There was a chance she might see Sophie Daniels there.

  *

  On the morning of market day, Sophie was up early. She opened the door and stood outside, relishing the calm, fresh beauty of the early hour. It was not yet six o’clock and the birds were filling the air with song, adding to the joy of the morning. Behind her the fire crackled as the sticks blazed. The kettle, left overnight on the dying fire to retain some precious heat, wouldn’t take long to boil.

  She was about to go back inside when a movement caught her eye. She stood still, expecting to see a cat, or the rich red of a fox, but the movement was something larger. A man stood in the top corner of the field, half hidden in the trees, a dog sitting at his heels, a broken gun over his arm.

  He was tall and strongly built, she couldn’t guess his age, as the clothes he wore were those worn by most who worked on the land, whatever their age, although she had the impression he was dressed more smartly than most. It might be the farmer who owned the cottage. Hoping he hadn’t seen her, she sidled back around the doorpost and slowly closed the door. Heart racing, she watched through the window, expecting him to walk towards her, tell her she must leave.

  Tommy Treweather’s son Ryan had been standing there for a while, perfectly still, looking down at the cottage. There were few discernible changes, yet it was different. It was no longer wearing the shroud of abandonment. There was an orderliness about the way brushes were lined up against the wall, a bucket precisely placed beside them. Curtains hung at the window, too, through which he could see an occasional flicker of flame from the fire, and a thin column of smoke issued from the chimney.

  As he watched, the door opened and the woman came out draped in a blanket of some sort over long skirts. She appeared stooped as though bent with age, but from that distance she looked ageless. Fifties? Seventies? Certainly too old to be living in such an isolated place alone. He vaguely wondered whether something should be done. Then he moved away, unable to hear the sigh of pent-up breath that made Sophie’s shoulders droop even lower with relief.

  An hour later she was ready to leave. She had filled her two willow baskets with jars of her home-made jams and pickles, and beside them were small paper bags labelled with the herbs she had gathered and dried. As she was about to close the door behind her she again saw a movement at the top of the field and darted back inside.

  Through the window she saw a man approach, different from the first, impatient, walking purposefully towards the cottage. It wasn’t the man she had seen previously. This man was in his late thirties, smaller, slimmer, and he was dressed almost shabbily. A farm worker perhaps?

  She quickly put the laden baskets back in the kitchen beside the sink and stood, anxiously waiting for the man to knock. Should she answer? Or just stay silent and hope he would go away? The decision was made for her as he walked straight in.

  ‘Who are you, and what are you doing in my uncle’s house?’ he demanded.

  ‘Sheltering for a while. Doing no harm,’ she replied in her high-pitched voice.

  ‘Then I have to tell you to leave,’ he said, looking around, taking in the attempts at furnishing the room. Trying not to look at the pale face of the young woman. Why had they presumed she was old? ‘Now. Today.’

  ‘Why?’ she dared to ask. ‘No one needs it and I haven’t done any damage. I’ll leave as soon as I find somewhere else but please, not today, there’s no need to be so unkind.’

  He went through the room and looked into the kitchen. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, pointing to the baskets.

  ‘I make preserves when I can, and sell them at Maes Hir market.’

  ‘So you run a business and pay my uncle no rent?’

  ‘Hardly a business. Just enough to buy food.’

  He looked at her then, and saw the anxiety in her eyes. She was no tramp, she was beautiful, and so young. Questions teemed through his mind, and he wondered why she was here all alone. She continued to stare at him and he started to feel uncomfortable. Uncle Tommy should have told her himself, not left the dirty work to him, as usual. ‘A week,’ he said more gently, ‘then I really will have to tell you to leave.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  When Owen returned to the farm he turned on his aunt and uncle, telling them he wasn’t a dogsbody, to be given jobs no one else would do. ‘If you want her to leave then tell her yourselves,’ he said as he left the house minutes after walking in.

  Ryan and Tommy stared after his retreating figure with surprise. It was not like Owen to be so outspoken, almost rude. He never complained, whatever he was asked to do: subservient would be how Ryan would have described him: aware of his lowly position in the family, so polite that the boys teased him. He wondered what the old vagrant woman had said to upset him so.

  *

  The small market town was bustling with its extra visitors. Connie Tanner walked among the stalls, taking in what was on offer but at the same time searching the crowds in the hope of seeing Sophie. She had been there for an hour and was about to give up when she saw her alighting from the bus.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, stepping forward to help with the heavy baskets. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘I was delayed and almost didn’t come at all.’

  Connie didn’t dare ask a question, instead she dropped the basket when Sophie had chosen a place just outside the area of stalls, where she hoped not to be charged rent, and with a friendly smile she wandered off to meet Stella as arranged.

  They watched for a while as the girl sold her stock, smiling at people she had seen before, dropping the coins into a bag strung round her tiny waist. They bought cups of tea from the café and took one to Sophie, ignoring her refusal, leaving it on the wall behind her. She drank it gratefully. With the visits from the farmer and his nephew, she hadn’t managed to have more than a glass of water that morning.

  When they saw that her baskets were almost empty Stella went up to Sophie and offered her some early rhubarb. ‘My Colin grows it on our allotment, see,’ she explained, ‘and there’s more than we’ll ever use. A bit of ginger and you’ll make a delicious jam.’

  Somewhat doubtfully, Sophie thanked her and wondered with dread if the woman would call to deliver it.

  ‘I’ve got some spare jars, too, and if you’d like to swap for some tea, I can let you have some sugar,’ Stella went on.

  More subdued thanks and Connie added, ‘We won’t call, though, it’s a long way, but if you come to the post office they’ll be there on the counter for you to pick up. Right?’

  A woman in the familiar uniform of the WAAF walked past and Sophie followed her with her eyes, a longing to see Daphne filling her with an ache. A friend to share some of the lonely hours was a luxury she would never find. When she had
lost her family she abandoned everyone else, too.

  At the bus stop Sophie stood in the queue for the bus to Cwm Derw, but when she saw Stella and the others at the end of it she changed her mind and hurried off. Better to wait for the next one rather than have to talk all the way back. Kind as they were, she couldn’t cope with that. People exhausted her, and there was always the fear of someone trying to get too close, and asking questions she didn’t want to answer, reopening old wounds.

  To her dismay, a small figure was sitting leaning against her door when she reached the cottage. The small boy waved and ran to meet her. ‘I brought you some jars and things,’ he said proudly. ‘I heard Stella Jones, her at the post office, talking to her old man about you and your jams and things, so I brought what I could find. They’ll need a wash mind,’ he warned.

  She smiled. It was such a kind thought even though he was probably hoping for a few pennies. She put down the baskets and offered him a sixpenny piece.

  ‘Ta, miss. A bag of chips for supper. Smashing.’

  She stood waiting for him to leave but he seemed in no hurry.

  ‘Like chips, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t buy them very often.’

  ‘What d’you have for supper then?’

  ‘Toast in front of the fire once I get it glowing sufficiently.’

  ‘That sounds good. I get fed up with chips. Mam doesn’t like cooking, see,’ he explained.

  ‘And what about your father, does he like chips?’

  ‘Oh him, he hopped it years ago.’

  She invited him in.

  They ate salad, which included dandelion leaves and the first pickings of watercress from the brook a couple of miles away, and home-made bread with a bowl of soup made from onions, carrots and the tops of nettles that were just beginning to grow at the edge of the field. Bertie pulled faces but accepted a second helping. He walked home feeling bloated after the unusual and delicious meal, and it felt good.

  The following morning when Sophie stepped outside and looked up at the sky she saw clouds, fast moving, driven by a strong wind. They darkened and dropped lower as she walked around, the scent of garlic strong as she crushed the new leaves. She admired the new growth all around her: the hint of purple on distant birch trees and the spears of bluebells already piercing the soil. A few wild daffodils had survived the children’s gathering and the fields were edged with blackthorn, delicate white flowers against the dark branches. She felt the chill of the rising wind and stood for a while enjoying the freshness of the disturbed air as she waited for the kettle to boil on the fire.

  After she had made a loaf of soda bread and prepared a vegetable casserole for later, she threw on a cloak and picked up a basket to search for whatever she could find in the fields and woods.

  The wind continued to pick up and there was a restlessness about the trees. The birds were now silent and in spite of the movement there was a kind of hush, an expectancy: a storm was brewing. Tightening her belt and fastening the shawls around her head more securely, she walked on. She wandered further than usual and found herself in the wood near Badgers Brook.

  She came at the house from the back, where the garden faced south and was bounded by a beech hedge. There was a gap through which she could see the house, and she was curious. The place had an abandoned unlived-in look. Leaves and branches and a few newspapers had blown against the walls and doorway. Abandoned toys and a broken chair had been piled as though ready for a bonfire, and there were no curtains at the wide, rain-splattered windows. Looking up she saw that at one window a curtain had been caught as the window had been closed, the tattered material waving sadly, like a flag when the carnival has moved on.

  Pushing her way through the hedge at the weak point, she went closer. She stared into the ground-floor rooms; in one a couch stood near an empty grate and in another, the kitchen facing the lane, there was a long, scrubbed table and two chairs. The place was hardly enticing, but something about its strong walls and its isolated situation appealed to her. ‘If only I could live in a place like this,’ she whispered, ‘I just know I’d be happy.’

  She heard voices then and looked around for a place to hide. As she turned to run back to the gap in the hedge, she saw Connie and Geoff watching her, smiling in a friendly manner, Connie holding out her hand.

  Geoff said, ‘See? I told you she’d find her way here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m trespassing, but I was curious and—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Geoff said. ‘You’re welcome. Would you like to see inside? Come on, let’s get out of the rain for a while.’

  While Connie unpacked the usual picnic in the kitchen, Sophie happily wandered from room to room, imagining herself living there, alone but content, and perhaps gaining strength and gradually making friends.

  ‘I love it here,’ she said when they had eaten Connie’s picnic. ‘I can’t imagine anyone being unhappy here for long.’

  ‘And are you unhappy?’ Connie asked.

  ‘I need solitude, but that isn’t being unhappy, is it?’

  ‘The place is for rent,’ Geoff said.

  ‘I don’t think I could afford it, I don’t make much with my preserves.’ She began to move towards the door.

  ‘Get a job and earn a little, the rent isn’t high.’

  ‘I’m not ready for that, not yet.’

  Connie packed the remnants of the food back into the bag and they stood to leave. ‘You know where to find us if you change your mind,’ she said with an encouraging smile.

  When Sophie went outside the wind was bending the slenderest trees this way and that, in a wild dance. She walked through the wood to where the stream passed through the trees like a silver ribbon, glinting and darkening as the trees moved to allow the light to reach its ruffled surface. The sounds of creaking, and the weird, unworldly, discordant shrieks as branches rubbed together, began to seem like threats, a reminder that she ought to be away from falling branches. She protected her half-filled basket under her coat and hurried home.

  On the step, his coat pulled up to cover his head, looking a picture of misery, was Bertie.

  ‘Any chance of something to eat?’ he asked, following her inside. He revived the fire, and pushed the kettle over its flames. Smiling, she put two plates on the hearth to warm and tested the heat of the casserole. ‘You shouldn’t be out in weather like this,’ she scolded mildly.

  ‘Neither should you, miss,’ he retorted.

  ‘Stay for supper but then I’ll walk you back home,’ she told him.

  ‘No need, eyes like a cat I have, be home in no time.’

  ‘Don’t go through the woods, the trees are waving dangerously. Some branches will fall.’

  ‘All right, miss.’

  For a while the stout old walls gave a comfortable sense of security as the storm howled around them. Smoke failed to go up the chimney; instead the wind sent it puffing into the room and the fire burned sluggishly.

  They ate a meal and hung the herbs she had gathered in the chimney corner to dry, wondering if they would taste of anything other than smoke and soot. She felt the draught as the door opened and with a ‘Ta, miss,’ Bertie was gone before she could do as she intended and walk him home. She opened the door and called for him to wait, but he’d been swallowed up by the darkness.

  It was too early to sleep but there was little she could do. The room was cold, as though the wind was sucking out all the warmth; better to save the candles and go to bed.

  She lay on her makeshift bed on the couch against the wall opposite the fire and for a while she thought about living in Badgers Brook. She had enough money to rent it, if she succumbed to her weakening reluctance and spent some of the money in her bank account. But wouldn’t it would be a mistake to spend money on renting a property that was too large, and with all that garden? It was much more than she needed, or could manage.

  What would she do if she did move in? Was the house worth making the necessary effort needed to f
orce herself to face the world and find a job? She couldn’t. She wasn’t ready. She closed her eyes but knew she wouldn’t sleep. The storm was worsening and the wildness was exciting and would keep her awake. Ten minutes later she was asleep.

  The storm invaded her sleep and brought a return of the nightmares she had suffered at the time her family had been taken from her. She saw falling masonry and heard the sound of smashing glass, the screams of those trapped and injured, and the faces of those she had lost came to her one by one. She felt them close to her: Mam, Dad, Carrie and Frank, Auntie Maggie, Uncle Albert, Gran and Gramps.

  At one a.m. she was woken by the realization that the shattering of glass wasn’t a dream. All around her were warnings of danger, tapping and banging, louder and louder. Something was happening to the house itself. She reached for her coat and slid from under the covers.

  The cacophony was alarming. Things were being blown around in the yard, windows rattled and the whole house was shaking as though being pulled apart by a giant hand. The loud banging came from above and she was relieved when it stopped. Yet she still held her breath and waited. Would it return and destroy the place and bury her? She couldn’t escape, there was nowhere safer than the building where she stood. But she was very afraid.

  She couldn’t see anything through the windows and the sounds were impossible to identify. She crouched near the door and waited for the storm to blow itself out, but it wasn’t finished yet.

  The loud banging began again, and this time the walls seemed to shake with the force of it. Then she heard tinkling glass, almost musical but swiftly followed by fierce cracking sounds and a kind of roar. Then something cumbersome and heavy, sliding, shrieking as though in agony, and falling. It went on and on. Surely it couldn’t be the roof? A draught filled the room and lifted ashes in the grate, snatching at the bedding and swinging the curtains like the skirts of a dancer.