The Boy with No Boots

by Sheila Jeffries

  Kate’s letter felt like a warm hand over his heart. Yet something was haunting him. Ethie! Those pale tormented eyes kept staring into his mind. He didn’t like Ethie. So why was she there, in his mind, wanting to tell him something? On his visits to Hilbegut Farm, Ethie had regarded him with smouldering resentment. It hadn’t bothered him then, but now it hung on his conscience like a sparrow hawk.

  Unable to concentrate on the stone carving, Freddie downed tools and headed for the hills in his lorry, drawn as always to the ridge of hill where he and Kate had picnicked. Still Ethie’s eyes followed him as he drove through the scented, blossom rich lanes, past swathes of dog violets, stitchwort and primroses. He longed to have Kate there beside him on the beautiful April day, and by the time he reached the parking place, her letter was hot in his pocket. Before he even opened it, he felt powerless. She was his love. That hadn’t changed and never could until the end of time. No matter how much he immersed himself in his work, his love for Kate was an eternal presence; it was both a wound and a passion.

  Hundreds of butterflies bobbed and danced over the hillside. Orange-tips and yellow brimstones, hoverflies and bumblebees gathering nectar from the flowers. Kate would have loved it, Freddie thought, allowing himself the dream. He’d paint her a picture.

  The sun was warm for April, and he sat on the ridge, gazing across the Levels towards the Bristol Channel. A sparrow hawk hovered right in his line of vision. Without warning it swooped like a deadly arrow and caught a linnet from a pair that were fluttering over the grasses. Freddie heard the bird scream, and saw its mate cowering in the grass, its wings trembling, its little voice cheeping in distress. He watched the hawk fly off with the tiny bird struggling in its claws, and Ethie’s eyes again looked cruelly into his soul. With a sudden foreboding, he opened Kate’s letter.

  Dearest Freddie,

  I hardly know how to tell you this, but your beautiful letters have only just reached me, every one since September. I sat down and read them over and over again, Freddie, and oh how I cried! Happy tears, and sad tears. I was distraught to find you had written me those interesting, lovely letters and I had not been able to respond. No wonder you stopped writing to me. You must have been hurt, and undeservedly so. I hope that the sad news I must tell you now will help you to understand and forgive me.

  Two weeks ago my sister, Ethie, was out in the estuary, alone, checking the putchers as she always did. We don’t know exactly how it happened, only that she must have been caught unawares by the Severn Bore. She was swept away, tragically drowned, and when the tide ebbed, they found her body miles upstream.

  Freddie stopped reading, the letter frozen in his hands. He looked up, and the sparrow hawk was there again, chillingly close, circling in a sky which was the colour of Ethie’s eyes – pale blue with that leonine tinge of gold. His vision had been true. He’d never doubted or questioned his visions before, but this one had disturbed him at a very deep level. Finding it true was shocking. Why did he have this gift? Why hadn’t he shared it? Could he have saved Ethie’s life? Was that why her eyes were haunting him now? He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Nobody would have believed him, especially a rebellious young woman like Ethie. Had his parents been right to forbid him to speak of it? Wise, he thought, but not right.

  Shaken, he returned to reading the bundle of numbered pages Kate had sent him:

  My parents are terribly upset, of course, and so am I. Ethie was not a happy person, but we loved her. I hope and believe that she is happy now, and in a better place. We held a quiet little funeral for her in the church at Lynesend, but we all wished we could have taken her home to Hilbegut. After the funeral we went down to the putchers and threw some flowers in the river. The tide whipped them away so fast, tiny daffodils and primroses looking so lost on that vast river. Mummy couldn’t stop crying. She said that no one ever gave Ethie a bunch of flowers in her whole life and she had to die before she could have one. None of us understood Ethie, but she was secretly very clever and loved to read, and her favourite book was The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley.

  This morning I had another shock. Mummy and I were clearing Ethie’s bed, and there, under the mattress, were all your letters, unopened. Mummy said Ethie had always gone running to meet the postman while I was at work, and she must have taken your letters and hidden them. I was devastated to think that my own sister could have done that. Why, why did she want to hurt me so?

  A rush of anger engulfed Freddie’s mind. He visualised Ethie’s pale sparrow hawk eyes and sent her a furious message with the power of his thought. ‘Leave us alone, Ethie. Go into the light and don’t ever come back. And if you try, I’ll have something to say to you. I’ll be waiting.’

  He read on.

  Please forgive my family, Freddie. They are part of me and I feel responsible. I’m sure that in time we shall get over it and that happy times will come again.

  I would have loved to welcome you here on your new motorbike, but of course you didn’t know that. Will you come another time? There’s so much more I want to tell you, and I want us to have another picnic together, and next time we shall go to the sea. I want to be with you when you see the real sea for the first time! And I want to see the stone angel. Fancy you making it look like me!

  I wish I could move back to Somerset, but I must stay and help my parents to get over Ethie’s death. I hope you will write to me again, Freddie, and tell me all about your work and your life, and I hope that next time I shall write you a more cheerful letter!

  Love and God Bless

  From Kate xx

  He read the letter again, this time extracting little sparkles of light and hope from it. She hadn’t mentioned Ian Tillerman. And she’d called him ‘dearest’ Freddie. Not ‘dear’. ‘Dearest’. That felt warm and special. He stared at the word for a long time, drinking in its meaning like a man in the desert with a beaker of cider. He stared at the ‘Love and God Bless’ and the two kisses. Then he folded the letter and stuffed it back into his pocket, over his heart. Despite its sad news, it was precious, with precious grains of hope like the heads of golden barley he had gleaned from that field so long ago. Grains of gold that would nourish and heal.

  But be careful, he thought, and remembered another line of Yeats.

  ‘But I being poor have only my dreams;

  I have spread my dreams under your feet;

  Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.’

  Chapter Twenty

  TREAD SOFTLY

  Freddie reached under his bed and dragged out a small leather suitcase. He wiped off the dust with his hanky, and put the case on the table. It had belonged to Granny Barcussy, and as soon as he touched it he could feel the swift warm vibration of her. He’d rarely opened it since Levi had given it to him. The burning grief he’d felt was somehow trapped inside, so he’d put it away under the bed, and now his mind was on fire with the need to find something he hoped was in there.

  He unclipped the two rusty clasps and lifted the lid. It squeaked and flopped back, releasing a faint scent of old lavender bags and damp. A few silverfish darted across the dark book covers, escaping from the light. Gingerly he searched inside the books, flipping the gold-rimmed thin pages; he shuffled through a box of letters and cards with crinkled edges. Nothing. Surely he couldn’t have lost something so precious?

  Disappointed, Freddie took everything out, laid it on his table and stared at the cream and brown emptiness of the case. Last to come out was a flat brown paper bag, the paper eaten away in little lines and blotches by the silverfish and the damp.

  He heard Granny Barcussy’s voice, clear as glass, and there she was, sitting in his chair, her crocheted green shawl around her small shoulders, her knobbly hands on the table, her eyes smiling at him. ‘It’s in the cloth,’ she said, and her image melted away into an apple-green radiance that left Freddie feeling invigorated. He picked up the paper bag and carefully slid out the dark blue cloth. The satiny fabric had been beautifully
ironed and he’d never dared unfold it in case he spoilt it.

  Smoothing it with his hands he remembered watching Granny Barcussy sitting in the candlelight on winter evenings stitching the cloth with gold and silver silks, so close to the candle that it illuminated her hair like cobwebs of gold. She’d embroidered the sun, moon and stars in each corner, and little curly clouds and flying birds around the edges.

  ‘What are you doing it for, Granny?’ he’d asked, and she’d said, ‘It’s a poem cloth, a love story, about a man who dreams of marrying a beautiful woman. It’s like a prayer, a prayer for your dreams.’

  Freddie wanted the poem now with an intense spiritual hunger. It said everything he felt about Kate, and he could only remember the last three lines. He wanted all of it. Conscious of the rough, stained skin of his big fingers, he unfolded the cloth, spreading it out over his bed. In the centre, in perfect condition, was a piece of cardboard cut from a fag packet. Shaking with emotion, Freddie took it to the window to read the poem Granny Barcussy had inscribed on it in her tiny neat writing. That was it, he thought, satisfied. A prayer for his dreams.

  He tucked the square of cardboard into his wallet. Then he took the dark blue cloth downstairs, past Annie who was asleep in her chair, and out into the summer twilight. The western sky was apricot and deep turquoise, with one bright star. Freddie put both hands on his carving of the stone angel and repeated the poem silently, and he could feel the words in his hands, percolating into the stone where he wanted them to stay forever. Then, with the deepest reverence, he draped the embroidered cloth right over the stone angel and left it there.

  Like the ghost of a long ago ocean, the white layers of mist covered the Somerset Levels turning the hills to mystic islands. The windows of Monterose Hospital reflected the pale morning sunlight. It was an imposing building, looming over the summit of the town, and today it had an air of expectancy as if to welcome the attractive young woman who was walking up from the station, her red shoes tip-tapping smartly, her skirt swinging, her dark eyes alert with excitement.

  Kate paused at the gates to smooth her clothes and pat her hair which was now shoulder-length again. Then she entered the building with a business-like strut.

  About an hour later, she emerged, her eyes brimming with tears, her lips pursed tightly. She walked round to a bench on the other side of the clump of elm trees and sat down to compose herself out of sight of the hospital windows. Only then did she let go of the mixed emotions corked up inside her. She’d managed a dignified exit. Now she wanted to kick off her shoes and dance barefoot and exuberant around the twiggy trunks of the elms, the way she had danced at home under the copper beeches of Hilbegut so long ago. Another part of her wanted to cry and cry. For Ethie. For her family. For the parting of the ways which change must bring.

  She had spread her wings, but flying free had happened with ruthless speed as if the west wind had been waiting to whisk her away. There had been no time to contact Freddie, no time to prepare herself for the confluence of emotions that welled up from her as she sat alone on the bench overlooking Monterose. Like folds of butter muslin, the mist retreated across the Levels towards Hilbegut, allowing Kate a glimpse of the tall chimneys and copper beeches.

  ‘I’ve done it,’ she kept thinking, and then she pictured her parents’ grief-stricken faces. How could she tell them? How could she?

  With the sun warm on her face, Kate sat listening to the sounds of Monterose. The town rang with voices and busy hammers, trotting horses and the scrape of cartwheels, but Kate was alert for the sound of a lorry. She tingled with the thought that she might see Freddie. Even to see him driving past would reassure her, just the sight of his profile, his cap, his big steady hands on the wheel, his expression calm and intent on driving. Even if he didn’t see her, she would know he was all right, she would feel that blend of peace and magic his presence evoked.

  But she didn’t see him, and no lorries came up the hill past the hospital.

  Kate took Bertie’s watch out of her handbag and put it to her ear. It was still ticking, and she had just one hour before the train would take her back on the long trip under the Severn Tunnel and into Gloucestershire. Was there time for a quick visit to the bakery? Impulsively she set off, walking and running along the slippery flagstone pavements, hoping she wouldn’t meet anyone who wanted to chat and keep her from the precious slice of time she might have with Freddie.

  Annie was surprised to see the beautiful young stranger come into the shop. Her face was oddly familiar as she stood smartly behind the customer Annie was serving. Annie kept an eye on her while she wrapped bread and counted change, noticing how the girl’s big eyes were looking everywhere, over the shelves, out of the window, up at the ceiling, and even trying to peer past her into the scullery. The girl looked alarmingly confident and womanly.

  ‘What would you like?’ asked Annie when the customer had gone and the shop doorbell jingled shut.

  Kate stepped forward eagerly and held out her hand. Annie searched her bright eyes and saw they were velvety amber and compelling. Annie often disliked people on sight, but the girl had a magnetism, a glow of light around her and she was beautifully dressed in a black suit with a blouse of a strawberry red colour, red shoes and bag. She gave Annie such a radiant smile that she found herself smiling back.

  ‘Are you Mrs Barcussy?’ she enquired. ‘Freddie’s mother?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m Kate Loxley. It’s lovely to meet you at last.’

  The smile vanished from Annie’s face. That Loxley girl. Brazen hussy.

  ‘What a lovely shop you have here,’ said Kate enthusiastically. ‘You must work so hard!’

  Annie drew herself up proudly. ‘I’ve always worked hard.’

  ‘And you make all this lovely bread? My family are cheese-makers. We ought to get together, shouldn’t we? Oh, and is this your DELICIOUS lardy cake? I must have a bit. I’ll buy some to take home.’ Unabashed by Annie’s suspicious stare and blunt manner, Kate chatted on. She admired the arrangement of daffodils and catkins on the counter. ‘Did you do this? I love pussy willow. It doesn’t grow much where I live now.’

  Annie stood there with her lips disappearing into her face. She was furious with Kate Loxley. The girl had hurt her Freddie, not answering his letters, breaking his heart Annie thought bitterly. Making him go all that way across the ferry and have his terrible accident, and lose the motorbike he’d saved up for. Annie had worked herself into a fury against this girl who had the cheek to stand there, bold as brass, in her shop. She controlled herself with difficulty, wrapping the lardy cake a bit too vigorously and putting Kate’s change down on the counter with a petulant click.

  ‘Was there something else you wanted?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d like to see Freddie please. Is he here?’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ said Annie triumphantly. ‘He’s gone up the alabaster quarry with Herbie. He won’t be back until late.’

  Kate looked disappointed. ‘I’ve only got half an hour before my train back to Gloucestershire. I can’t stay. Will you tell him I called?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’ll tell him.’ Annie thawed just a little when she saw the sadness in Kate’s eyes.

  ‘I did so want to see him,’ she said, and her eyes glistened with some secret she wasn’t sharing. ‘But I’ve got a long journey home, and I must get back to my parents. Daddy is so ill, and they’re grieving, we all are. My sister Ethie was drowned in the River Severn.’ Kate’s voice went down and down, to a whisper, and Annie stood in silence, a battle going on inside her mind as the angry bitter thoughts collided with an incoming rush of maternal understanding. Kate was a human being, a young girl who had lost her home, and her sister. Annie opened her heart like she opened the front door, just a crack, and began to let her in.

  ‘I’m sorry about your sister,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Kate looked into Annie’s eyes, which were so like Freddie’s, cobalt blue with flecks of violet, and f
ull of wordless insight. Freddie’s eyes were calm but Annie’s had tinges of anxiety, similar to Ethie’s, Kate thought. Anxiety masquerading as anger. ‘Is Freddie all right?’ she asked.

  ‘He is now,’ Annie replied proudly. ‘And . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I should ask you in for a cup of tea. He’d want me to.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Kate warmly, ‘but I’ve a train to catch so I must go.’

  Annie nodded. ‘I’ve got some more customers coming up the road. But – there’s something you should see, Kate, before you go.’ She opened the door to the garden. ‘You take a look out there and you’ll see what my Freddie’s been doing. Go on, it won’t take you a minute.’

  Kate stepped out into the garden and her mouth fell open in astonishment.

  ‘Night and day he’ve worked,’ said Annie, ‘and that one there, that’s St Peter and it was commissioned by the church. ’Tis not quite finished yet.’

  ‘This is unbelievable.’ Kate stood looking around at the display of stone carvings. There was an owl, a squirrel, a collection of stone faces, and a tiny singing bird. She looked closely at the statue of St Peter, marvelling at the way Freddie had carved the peaceful face, the drape of his robe, the bunch of keys hanging from his belt. ‘It’s marvellous. I can’t believe Freddie has done all this. How exciting! I’m thrilled to bits. How wonderful. You must be so proud, Mrs Barcussy.’

  Annie beamed, enjoying Kate’s enthusiasm.

  ‘And what’s under that cloth?’ Kate asked in a stage whisper, her eyes very bright as she walked round something on a pedestal, completely covered in a dark blue embroidered cloth. Her fingers itched to unveil it.

  ‘Ah – I’m not to show you that,’ said Annie secretively. ‘Freddie said – he wants it to stay under that cloth that his Granny embroidered until – until . . .’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, not while she still held some of the anger and suspicion in her heart. ‘You’ll have to wait to find that out.’