The Boy with No Boots

by Sheila Jeffries

  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?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with her, Mother. Ages ago she offered to give me a driving lesson, so I took her up on it. I knocked on her door and asked her. Before I bought the lorry. She let me drive her Model T all up over the Polden Hills, and I soon got the hang of it.’

  Annie snorted. She didn’t approve of Joan Jarvis. From what she’d heard, Joan Jarvis was a scarlet woman who wore lipstick and silly hats and raced about in her Model T Ford, scattering chickens and upsetting horses. But Annie couldn’t be cross with Freddie. She was flabbergasted at what he’d done, and she’d never seen him look as red-faced and confident as he did now. It was almost as if he’d been recreated in one day. The pale, exhausted little boy had gone and a vibrant young man sat there in his place, but still with that caring, quizzical intensity in his eyes.

  ‘And – what are you going to do with this lorry?’ she asked.

  ‘I intend to start a haulage business,’ said Freddie. ‘And – I’ve got two jobs already, for tomorrow morning. I went to see the stonemason – Herbie – he’s a friend of mine, and he needs a load of stone brought down from the quarry. Then I went to the wheelwright place, and he wants me to deliver a stack of wheels he’s been making. There’s plenty of work and not enough lorries to do it. I reckon this one will have paid for itself in a month or so.’

  There was a silence between them. Freddie thought his mother might have said, ‘Well done’ or something like that, but such platitudes were not in Annie’s mind-set.

  She frowned. ‘But Freddie – what about the bakery?’

>   ‘I was coming to that,’ he said, ‘and don’t worry, I’ll help you in the mornings for as long as I can, Mother – but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  Freddie breathed in slowly through his nose. Then, looking directly into Annie’s anxious eyes he said the words he’d waited so long to utter. ‘I do appreciate what you and Dad did for me, but I don’t want to spend my life in the bakery.’

  Annie nodded bleakly, ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t want you to feel hurt,’ said Freddie.

  ‘Doesn’t look as if I’ve got much choice does it?’

  Annie lapsed into a bitter silence.

  ‘I’ll help you out, for now,’ promised Freddie, ‘but not forever, Mother. I’ve got plans.’

  ‘Plans?’ She looked at him sharply and he could feel the atmosphere between them changing. ‘What plans?’

  The way he hesitated to answer threw Annie into one of her panics.

  ‘No. You can’t leave me,’ she cried and her whole body began to shake violently. ‘Please. Please don’t leave me. I can’t go out. How will I manage? They’ll take me to the asylum, they’ll say I’m a mad woman.’

  Freddie felt the weight of her need. He’d wanted to assert himself, but Annie’s nerves seemed to overpower both of them. In the silence of his soul, he vowed that he’d find a way to break free, no matter what.

  Chapter Twelve

  FOREVER BLOWING BUBBLES

  Polly was used to trains by now. She stood placidly as Kate tied her to the station railings alongside a row of other horses and carts which had brought goods to be loaded onto the freight train. There were baskets of racing pigeons stacked in fours, the birds peeping out and muttering in their iridescent throats; sacks of early potatoes; cartons of ripe strawberries; bundles of willow baskets and boxes of terracotta flowerpots; stacks of fencing posts and rolls of wire. Several lorries were parked there, one unloading bundles of leather shoes, boots and sandals.