The Boy with No Boots

by Sheila Jeffries

  Surely it was possible to send his thoughts whizzing over there on some ethereal network. He remembered the vision he’d had at his father’s funeral. Sitting on the steps at the back of the church he’d seen a beam of gold deep down in the earth and stretching for miles and miles, following the curve of the earth. Granny Barcussy knew some amazing things, and once she’d told him about the Aborigines who lived in Australia, and how they communicated with distant tribes by using the song lines. It wasn’t logical, but in his prophetic soul, Freddie understood it. He wished he had a drum to beat out a message that would carry across the water to that distant shore. All he had was his voice. He looked around, checking that he was alone on the ridge, and he was.

  He started to sing, huskily at first, furtively, then confidently as he remembered some of the songs Kate liked. ‘Danny Boy’ – he could sing that – and the words mirrored his feelings exactly, so he sang that first. Then he remembered ‘The water is wide, I cannot cross over’. He sang until the tears started trickling down his cheeks and drying on his skin in the afternoon sun. Then he strolled along the ridge, whistling the nostalgic tunes, and the sadness began to disperse as if the music was sweeping it away. It was a time for courage, he thought, for making the best of it, as Kate had said. He must focus on building his business, making enough money to afford a home fit for Kate. And there was no reason why he shouldn’t go to Gloucestershire and see her, he thought, especially if he had a motorbike.

  Kate sat on the top bar of the high wooden gate, her arms round the neck of a sleek chestnut horse. The feel of its warm silky coat, the softness of its muzzle and the kindly dark eyes were cheering her up. There were other horses in the field, but this one, a thoroughbred, had made a beeline for Kate as if it knew she needed a friend.

  Bertie knew his daughter very well, and he had deliberately sent Kate out on her own, ‘to check the sheep’ he’d said, knowing that the route to the sheep pastures would take Kate past the racing stables, and she would be sure to find a horse to cuddle. So while Ethie and Sally organised the new cheese-making enterprise, Kate had gone off by herself, dressed in her farming gear of breeches, long boots and a red shirt. She’d enjoyed the walk through the sheep fields on the wide flat banks of the Severn Estuary, the fresh salty air and the light on the water, the surge of the incoming tide as it covered the expanses of sand and spilled into mirror-like pools where thousands of seabirds bobbed and fished, their cream heads and silvery feathers shining in the morning sun. This landscape was so different from Hilbegut. The tidal river was dominant and powerful, eating away at the sheep fields, making low turfy cliffs and inlets. In the distance were the high wooded hills of the Forest of Dean.

  Kate had walked a mile along the green banks, carefully looking at the grazing sheep and the fat summer lambs, seeing no signs of illness or trouble. She had sat on the turfy cliff edge, swinging her boots and enjoying the fresh wind on her cheeks, and watched a line of barges chugging up the river. Laden with massive mahogany logs from the rainforest, they turned into the canal entrance to wait at the lock gates and then unload their cargo at the timber mill.

  Parallel to the sheep pastures, on slightly higher ground, was the land belonging to the racing stables, a circuit of it expensively fenced with post and rails to make a ‘gallop’. Kate hadn’t had much experience of racehorses and she was eager to see them. The horse she was petting suddenly raised its head and whinnied loudly. Along the lane came a man riding an elegant dappled grey racehorse and leading a second one, a glossy bay with a black mane and tail.

  ‘Hello there.’ He paused, surprised to see the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl sitting on the gate. Kate flashed a smile at him, and he smiled back. He had very white teeth and black merry eyes.

  ‘Hello.’ Kate jumped down from the gate and went to stroke the two tall horses who arched their necks graciously and blew in her hair. ‘Are they racehorses?’

  ‘Yes – both, in training for Cheltenham.’

  ‘They’re so beautiful,’ breathed Kate. ‘Are they yours?’

  ‘Yes. Bred them both, I did,’ he said proudly, smoothing the neck of the grey horse who stood staring thoughtfully into the distance. ‘I’m Ian Tillerman. And you are?’

  ‘Kate Loxley.’

  ‘Ah – a Loxley.’

  ‘I’m Don Loxley’s niece.’

  ‘Just on holiday, are you?’

  ‘No. We’ve come here to live at Asan Farm with my uncle. Mother, Dad, Ethie and me, from Hilbegut in Somerset.’

  Ian Tillerman’s eyes brightened with interest. He looked intently at Kate who, he thought, exuded confidence and sparkle as she stood looking up at him.

  ‘Want a ride?’ he said impulsively. ‘Can you ride?’

  ‘Ooh yes. I love riding.’ Kate beamed. ‘But I’ve never ridden a real racehorse. I’d love to.’

  Ian Tillerman kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped down. He stood gazing at Kate for a moment. ‘Are you used to galloping? These horses are fast, believe me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kate firmly, even though her nerves were on fire with excitement.

  ‘You ride the bay. She’s called Little Foxy, and she’s a good girl. She’s fine as long as she doesn’t see a motorbike. Just let her have her head. We’ll do two circuits of the track,’ he said. ‘Keep her level with me, then I’ll know you’re all right.’

  He gave Kate a leg up onto the horse, a bit too vigorously, so that she nearly shot over the other side.

  ‘Whoops. Steady on!’ she laughed loudly and Little Foxy flicked her ears back to listen to this new rider on her back, a girl with a bird-like voice and kind hands that smoothed the crest of her neck. Kate adjusted the stirrups, and took the reins.

  ‘I can see you’ll be fine,’ said Ian Tillerman. He vaulted onto the grey horse and they set off at a sedate walk, through the gap in the hedge and into the gallop circuit. Kate was thrilled. Little Foxy was quivering with excitement, knowing she was going to gallop like a wild horse. She began to dance sideways, her muscles rippling in the sunlight. Ian Tillerman glanced at Kate and raised his black eyebrows. ‘Ready?’

  ‘You bet,’ she said, and before he could say anything else she had let Little Foxy go and was galloping ahead of him, her hair streaming back as she crouched low over the horse’s neck, her knees gripping the leather saddle, her heels well down. He tore after her, his heart pounding when he saw the risk he’d taken so impulsively, letting a perfect stranger, a girl, ride his expensive, corned-up racehorse. Supposing she couldn’t cope and had a terrible accident? It would be his fault, and Don Loxley would never forgive him, and neither would his father.

  But Kate was exuberant, loving the feel of the powerful horse, the wind whipping her cheeks to flame, the ground speeding past. She flashed a smile at Ian Tillerman as he thundered up beside her, and urged Little Foxy even faster, the two horses flying over the turf, their nostrils flared, and hooves kicking up lumps of mud. Beside them in the wide river, the fast running tide glittered as it raced up the estuary under a wild and shining sky.

  Freddie drove his lorry slowly down the wooded hill into Yeovil, past the hospital and on through the streets of terraced houses, looking for George’s motorbike. When he saw it propped in the front garden of a red brick house, he parked at the kerb, got out and walked through the overgrown garden. He knocked at the door with his fist and waited, glimpsing a movement through the front window. George was at home, watching him behind mustard-coloured curtains. Freddie knocked again, louder, and eventually George came to the door. The way he opened it a crack and peered out reminded Freddie momentarily of Annie, the same fear in the same eyes.

  ‘Oh, ’tis Freddie.’ George opened the door fully. He looked rough and unshaven, his clothes smelled fusty, and he wore battered leather slippers with a hole through which a calloused and grubby toe protruded. ‘You better come in,’ he said, and led the way over bare floorboards into a room with mould up the walls and stacks of yellowing newspapers. One was spread o
n the floor with some oily black bits of an engine on it.

  ‘That your lorry?’ George pointed to the dirty window where the bulk of the Scammell lorry glowed red.

  ‘Yes,’ said Freddie shortly.

  ‘Bet you haven’t paid for it.’

  Freddie ignored the jibe and sat down on a rickety kitchen chair.

  ‘I’ve come to see you about Mother,’ he said.

  ‘What about her?’ George sat back and folded his arms across his chest in a defensive stance.

  Freddie was silent. He tried to get eye contact but George wouldn’t look at him, and everything Freddie had planned to say was suddenly useless. So he stayed quiet and waited, thinking he had to approach George from a different angle.

  ‘So what about Mother, then? Not ill, is she?’ George asked, and Freddie could see that his silence was unnerving. He maintained it until George’s questions started to disintegrate into stumbling attempts to reconstruct the armour he’d always worn in front of his brother.

  ‘We’re brothers, George,’ said Freddie very quietly, ‘and I’d like us to be friends.’

  ‘Ah.’ Finally George met the steady blue gaze of Freddie’s eyes. They were full of light and a deep mysterious peacefulness that George didn’t have. He didn’t feel good about the way he’d treated Freddie. Right from the start he’d either ignored or teased him, jealous of the way his mother had been so besotted by the waiflike blond child who had grown into this quiet, confident young man who was offering him friendship. George crumbled. His big hands shook and his eyes glistened. He took a fag from a squashed packet and lit it, offering one to Freddie.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘’Tis hard,’ said George. ‘I miss the old man. And ’tis lonely here, see? I do care about Mother. It’s just – well, ’tis hard, a hard life I got. I’ll tell ’e, Freddie . . .’

  Freddie kept quiet and listened attentively. George was talking to him for the first time, telling him about his job at Petter Engines, sharing his dream of having his own garage, the pains in his legs and shoulders, and how he hated living alone. And right at the end of the tale he said sadly, ‘I were all right, see, ’til she went off.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Freda. My lady love. Oh, I loved her. Lovely girl, lovely she was. A singer and a pianist. Play anything she could – make that piano dance, she did. I give her everything, Freddie, everything, and she just upped and left me for some fancy boy from London. Nothing I could do. Nothing. You wait ’til you’re in love, Freddie. Then you’ll know.’

  His voice broke into fragments, and Freddie went on listening as George talked about his pain. His aura was clearing as if the talking was a polluted liquid draining from a barrel, and all the time Freddie could see Levi standing next to him, radiant and shining as he’d never been in life. He had his arm around George’s shoulders, and he looked just once at Freddie, put his finger to his lips and shook his head.

  Freddie nodded. Keep quiet, Levi was telling him.

  George heaved himself out of the low leather chair, his knees cracking. ‘I better make you a cuppa tea,’ he said, ‘or I got cocoa. Do ’e want that?’

  ‘Tea please,’ Freddie smiled, thinking it was the first time in his life that George had offered him anything. They stood looking at each other and he could feel the change, the melting of the barriers, the new friendship floating through in wisps. He’d come to talk about Annie, but instead he’d been silent and it had worked.

  ‘Want a ride in my lorry?’ he suggested. ‘It’s a Scammell.’

  ‘Could do,’ said George with the ghost of a twinkle. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting a go on my motorbike.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  LITTLE BLUE LETTERS

  ‘Cor, that’s a beauty.’ The postman leaned over his bicycle to admire the salmon in Ethie’s bucket, its tail flopped over the edge. ‘Ten pounder that ’un, I reckon.’

  Ethie put the bucket down, rubbing her arm which was aching from lugging the heavy fish up the lane to Asan Farm. Collecting salmon from the putchers at low tide was her favourite job. She’d had to persuade her father that she was responsible enough to do it, and Uncle Don had taught her well how to read the tides and how to tread carefully over the shifting sands of the estuary. It gave her time alone close to the power of the river she loved. Going home with a huge fish gave her a new feeling in her life, a sense of being welcome. She almost felt grateful to the rainbow-skinned fish which had lost its life so that she, Ethie, could feel wanted and successful.

  ‘Shall I take the letters?’ she asked. ‘It’ll save you going down the lane.’

  The postman rummaged in the box on the front of his bicycle. ‘There’s two for Mr D. Loxley, one for Mr B. Loxley – and this little blue one, for Oriole Kate Loxley. Lovely handwriting that. Real copperplate. Beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t put ’em in the bucket with the fish,’ teased the postman, but Ethie didn’t smile at him. ‘Where’s your young sister today then?’

  ‘She’s working,’ said Ethie shortly. ‘At the Tillerman’s racing stables.’

  ‘Lovely girl, your sister. Lovely girl. Always got a smile.’

  The darkness crept back over Ethie’s morning. The way the postman looked her up and down, the way he expected a smile, annoyed Ethie intensely. Then he had followed it with the usual warm accolades for Kate, and the remark had sucked the glory out of Ethie’s journey home with the salmon.

  ‘Good morning.’ With a curt nod she picked up the bucket and walked on briskly, the letters in her jacket pocket. The postman shrugged and pedalled off on his bicycle, whistling a rebellious refrain.

  When he had gone into the distance, Ethie stopped and took out the little blue letter with the copperplate writing. She knew it was from Freddie. Every Tuesday it came, and Kate’s eyes would light up as she sat there reading it and smiling, her dark eyes full of joy.

  Ethie stood in the middle of the lane considering her options. Tear the letter into hundreds of pieces and sprinkle them into the hedge? Bury it under a cowpat? Burn it? Or should she open it first? The letter felt velvet-smooth in her hands and it had a feel of Freddie’s peacefulness which Ethie secretly admired. Spoiling the beautiful writing would only compound her crime. Ethie smiled to herself and tucked Freddie’s letter into her inner pocket. She planned to take it home and hide it in a place where Kate would never find it.

  Jubilant, she walked on, carrying the bucket with the fish iridescent in the sunshine. From now on, she resolved, she would meet the postman every Tuesday.

  The stone angel was slowly emerging from the block of Hilbegut stone. Freddie had chipped away at it in the mellow September evenings, sometimes working on into the twilight. He’d shaped the curving wings and the head of the angel in between. Now he was chiselling out the deep clefts between the wings and the body, so absorbed in the task that he didn’t notice anything around him, even the comings and goings of birds. So he was surprised to look up and see Annie standing there watching him in her flowery apron, her head on one side and a puzzled frown over her eyes.

  ‘How much longer are you going to be out here?’ she asked.

  ‘As long as I can.’ Freddie brushed the dust from the carving.

  ‘What about the bread?’

  ‘I’ll do that when it’s dark. I’ve got to do this in daylight.’

  ‘This is starting to look like a stonemason’s yard,’ said Annie, pointing at the blocks of stone Freddie had stashed against the wall. ‘What are you going to do with all those?’

  ‘Make things.’

  ‘Make a mess, more like. Look at all this dust.’

  Freddie went on chiselling silently.

  ‘And when you’re not out here, you’re upstairs writing letters to that Loxley girl,’ complained Annie.

  Freddie slowly put his tools down, dipped his hands in a bucket of water and dried them on a cloth. He looked at his mother’s eye
s in the soft blue twilight and saw past the anger and into the pain.

  ‘You want me at home, don’t you?’ he asked.

  Annie nodded.

  ‘Then it’s time we had a talk,’ said Freddie. He put an arm around his mother’s shoulders, led her inside and sat her down at the scullery table. He looked at her quietly, thinking that this armour-plated woman, who had both protected and intimidated him in his childhood, was getting smaller and smaller. It wasn’t just the physical weight she was losing. It was a dying flame. Since Levi’s death, Annie’s inner light had burned down like a candle flame reaching the end of the wick, turning slowly to a smoking bead of fire.

  ‘What is there to talk about?’ she asked, a sharp blade of anxiety in her voice.

  ‘Well, there’s Kate,’ said Freddie, and even saying her name brought a glow to his heart. ‘The fact is, Mother, whether you like it or not, I love Kate Loxley and I intend to marry her.’

  ‘Marry her?’ Annie went stiff. She stared into Freddie’s eyes and saw that he meant it. Her life stretched out before her like a wintry road leading into a dark forest where finally she must face her demons alone.

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ began Freddie, and his eyes flared blue with wordless passion, compelling her to listen. ‘It’s not going to happen straight away. But you’ve got to prepare yourself, Mother, find a way of managing your life without me. If you do it one step at a time, you can, and I’ll help you, but I’m not going to be here forever.’

  Annie was twisting her ring round and round her finger. She wanted to be glad that her youngest son had found a future wife, she wanted to say how proud she was of Freddie. But layers of extreme fear had constructed a chrysalis around what was really in her heart.

  ‘I hope that brazen young hussy deserves you,’ she said, and immediately felt the sting of guilt, especially when Freddie’s face registered the hurt. She marvelled that even though his face went a deep red, his eyes stayed calm, and he didn’t get up and smash china like Levi would have done. She wanted to say sorry but the apology was buried too deep in her psyche.