The Boy With No Boots Part 16

'I gotta go on my way,' said Freddie.

'Oh, no you don't.' Ian Tillerman got down from his horse and confronted Freddie, his face an ugly brick red. 'You've no business riding that d.a.m.ned motorbike down here. This is a private road. Can't you read?' He didn't wait for Freddie to reply but ranted on, flicking his whip as he talked. 'That's a valuable racehorse, can't you see that? She could break a leg galloping on the road like that. G.o.d knows what's going to happen, and if there's an accident I shall be suing you whoever you are.' He moved closer, his arms looped through the reins of the grey horse who stood watching the bay one still galloping in the distance. He put his red face close to Freddie and sniffed like a dog. 'I thought so. Alcohol. You've been drinking. You've no business riding a motorbike in that state. Drunken b.l.o.o.d.y lout.'

Freddie was reminded of the times Levi had lost his temper. He knew it was no good trying to stop him, the explosion would go on until all the storm had been released. So Freddie hunkered down and let him rant, feeling nothing but contempt.

'Who the h.e.l.l are you, anyway? Where've you come from? Eh? Answer me.'

'Now you listen to me,' said Freddie calmly, looking Ian Tillerman in the eye. 'I got a right and a reason to be here, and I don't have to tell you who I am. Who are you, anyway?'

'I'm Ian Tillerman. I own those racing stables, and this land.'

Freddie heard the name Ian Tillerman and no more after that. The rest of the diatribe hurtled past him as he remembered Kate's letters.

'And who is that on the other horse?' he asked.

'My fiancee,' said Ian Tillerman pus.h.i.+ng his chest out arrogantly. 'Not that it's any concern of yours. And if anything happens to my Kate you you and your noisy b.l.o.o.d.y motorbike will end up facing MY lawyers in court.'

The shock burned into Freddie's heart as if he'd been stung by a thousand wasps. His body wasn't ready for it and neither was his mind. His heart took the full force of it and began to beat furiously in his cold body; the small velvet box with Kate's ring shook in the secret silk of his pocket. Kate, his Kate. No wonder her letters had stopped. But why, why hadn't she told him?

On automatic pilot, Freddie revved the motorbike, swung it round and roared back towards the ferry, a new blast of rain spattering his hunched form as he headed into the wind.

The motorbike which had carried him steadily all the way suddenly behaved like a demon, wrenching and twisting his angry body, skidding and flying over the ruts and potholes. Freddie pushed it faster and faster, no longer caring, hardly seeing where he was going, the wind howling in his ears, a searing pain deep in his chest.

Two miles further on, the rough road turned sharp left over a bridge that spanned the ca.n.a.l. Freddie heard the fierce rasp of skidding wheels and the handlebars jammed sideways as the front wheel hit a stone post with a sickening crunch. He saw the ca.n.a.l water steaming, he saw leaves and clods of mud storming through the air, and then an almighty splash of briny water hit the side of his head, forcing itself straight through his balaclava. He landed spread-eagled on the squelching wet bank, turned his head and watched his motorbike sinking into the dark water, making a deep groaning bubbling sound that gradually settled into a silent lap-lapping of water. Gasping for breath, Freddie clawed at tufts of gra.s.s with his hands, then laid his cheek on the cold mud and plummeted down, down into an echoing coma.

n.o.body came running. Except for a lone workman standing up on a barge in the distance, the place was deserted. The fuel from the submerged motorbike coiled into swirling rainbows on the still surface of the ca.n.a.l and a shaft of acid sunlight lit up the mud-covered body lying on the bank.

Kate sat back in the saddle and pulled steadily at Little Foxy's reins, talking to her constantly, trying to keep fear out of her voice. Ian had warned her that the young mare was frightened of motorbikes. But there hadn't been time to take evasive action. This motorbike with its mud-plastered rider had come at them on the bend just as they were returning from the gallop. The horses were tired and steaming in the cold air, and Kate had relaxed and let Little Foxy plod along on a loose rein. She'd been in the middle of telling Ian a joke about a chicken when they'd heard the motorbike, and Little Foxy had whipped around and bolted, her head and tail high, her eyes wild. Kate heard Ian's roar of rage and his voice shouting. She clung on, gradually regaining her grip, shortening the reins and trying to calm the panicking horse.

She steered Little Foxy through an open gateway into a ploughed field, knowing that the rough ground would slow her down, and it did. The mare soon came to a halt, her sides heaving. Kate got her feet free of the stirrups and swung herself down, quickly pulling the reins over Little Foxy's head so that she had control.

'Poor girl. It's all right. I'm here,' Kate said, her hand on the horse's neck. She was surprised to find her own legs shaking. The incident had unnerved her. Quivering all over, she leaned against Little Foxy who gave her a sympathetic nudge as if she understood. 'Well, look at us both, in such a state,' said Kate in her normal cheerful voice. 'Now we're going to turn around and walk quietly back no more panicking.'

With her legs still trembling, Kate coaxed the horse out of the field and into the lane where they both stood listening. The sound of the motorbike was fading into the distance, and she waited until it had disappeared completely, leaving only the whine of the wind and the rain pattering. Kate took a deep breath. She wanted a little cry but didn't allow it. She was all right, it was just a memory that haunted her, of that day when she had been thrown from the cart at Monterose station. She found herself thinking of Freddie, wis.h.i.+ng it was his thoughtful blue eyes welcoming her now, not Ian's demanding stare.

When Freddie's letters had stopped coming, Kate had covered her disappointment with lots of laughing and chatting. Ignoring Ethie's gleeful jibes had been hard, but she'd managed, and Sally had said, 'Freddie's a young man, Kate. He's not going to wait around for a girl who's far away. Forget about him. He'll soon find someone else and so will you.' The brisk a.s.sumption had hurt Kate. For a while she kept writing to Freddie, hoping he would reply, but the weeks went by and no letters came. She was glad of her morning job with the horses, and flattered by Ian Tillerman's attention.

Little Foxy lifted her head and whinnied, and there was an answering whinny from Ian's horse as he came to meet them, also on foot. Kate wanted a hug, but instead she got a blast of anger from him as they reached each other.

'd.a.m.ned infernal motorbikes,' he stormed, 'and you should have seen the state of him. Covered in mud and stinking of brandy. b.l.o.o.d.y arrogant lout. I sent him packing. I told him he'd got no business down here. b.l.o.o.d.y townies think they can go anywhere. No respect for horses. I mean, the way he came round that bend. Disgraceful hoodlum behaviour. And I told him if anything happened to that horse, I'd sue him. He soon turned tail and went, b.l.o.o.d.y lout. Good riddance too. By the way, are you all right?'

Kate opened her mouth to reply but Ian didn't wait for an answer. He checked Little Foxy over. 'Better get these horses back to the stables or they'll catch a chill. Can you stay and rub her down, please? Come on, we'll lead them back.'

He marched off briskly, leading his horse, and Kate followed, her eyes downcast. She didn't want to work late today. She wanted some lunch and a warm fire, and time to be with her family, and time to recover.

When Freddie didn't return that night, Annie wasn't too concerned. He'd told her he was spending the night with Kate's family and coming back the next day. So she kept herself busy, mixing dough and stoking c.o.ke ovens. She made Freddie's bed up with fresh sheets and cooked his favourite shepherd's pie to heat when he came home the next day.

But as she settled down with her knitting, a sense of isolation spread itself around Annie like a ripple from a stone dropped into a lake. On distant sh.o.r.es the waves broke like quiet folds of satin, so hushed that no one knew of the anguish that had started them.

Annie went to bed in the silent cottage, blew out her candle and lay listening for footsteps in the night street, or owls outside on the trees. She heard some drunken revelry from the pub, a man coughing and retching as he trudged past, the whirr of a bicycle and the click-click of a dog's paws as it trotted by. Then it was so quiet she sensed the tick of the church clock and the rhythmic swoos.h.i.+ng of her heartbeat. She lay rigid on her back, her eyes hopelessly staring into the velvet darkness. Eventually she got out of bed, groped her way to the door where she unhooked Levi's old tartan dressing gown, took it back to bed and went to sleep cuddling it, comforted by the musty, malty smell of the corn mill.

It was still dark when she got up at 5 a.m. and put the first batch of bread in to cook. She mixed lardy cake and rolls, cut the dough and left them to rise. She was short of yeast. Freddie would get it for her, and he'd said he would be back about midday. Annie was glad she had plenty to do and customers to chat to, but the morning seemed endless.

Once again Joan appeared, full of enthusiasm, just at closing time.

'I need a chat with you, Annie. Is Freddie back? No? Oh dear but never mind, that can wait.'

'What can wait?' asked Annie. 'Slow down a bit, Joan, will you? I think your mind goes twice as fast as mine.'

Joan smiled. 'That's what my husband says. Now then, Annie, those beautiful flowers you grow and I see you're good at arranging them too. How would you like to do the flowers for the church? They really need someone, and I'm no good at it.'

Annie frowned. She turned her back and busied herself brus.h.i.+ng crumbs off the shelves. 'I've gotta get on.'

Joan stood there determinedly. 'I'd come with you and help,' she said. 'I can take you down now if you like. Annie?'

'I I don't walk too well,' Annie mumbled, and her heart started thumping. The skin on her face felt tight and hot, and she wanted to cry.

'Annie?' Joan was there instantly, her hand on Annie's tense shoulders, her eyes concerned. 'What is it? You're shaking. Here, sit down.'

She dragged a chair out but Annie wouldn't sit down.

'I can't tell you,' she said, gripping the counter.

'Oh, you can,' said Joan persuasively. 'You can tell me. I promise I won't gossip, Annie. It'll just be between the two of us. Come on. Let's sit down at your lovely table.'

Annie couldn't move. She hadn't had a friend since before the war. Levi and Freddie had been her whole world. It had to change. This woman with the scarlet nails and the fox furs whom she had totally misjudged was offering her a lifeline. She allowed herself to be led into the scullery where she sat at the table, her hands spread out on the friendly well-scrubbed wood.

'I can't go out,' she whispered, and put her hands over her face to catch the tears which broke through the layers of sh.e.l.l she had inhabited over the years. At first she could only rock to and fro and say, ''Tis terrible terrible. n.o.body knows, only my Freddie.' She risked a glance at Joan, surprised to see how caringly and closely the woman was listening.

'What happens when you go out?' Joan asked gently.

'I'm all right in the garden, but soon as I go outside that gate I don't know why, but I'm so giddy, and I'm frightened of falling. I'm a big woman, I fall heavy. Oh 'tis terrible, the pavement goes all wavy like water, and the buildings look like they're falling down on me. I panic, see. And the panic is the worst thing. My heart races and I shake and I can't get my breath. I think I'm going to die. And and . . .' Annie glanced up at Joan. 'You don't want to be listening to this.'

'Yes I do. I've plenty of time,' said Joan firmly. 'You tell me everything, and I mean everything.'

Annie nodded. Her greatest fear waited at the end of her talking, like a boulder, wobbling, waiting to fall.

'I can only go out if my Freddie is with me. He's wonderful. Ever since he was little he's looked after me, he holds my hands and talks me through it. Many times he's got me home and and Levi never knew. I'm so ashamed of myself, Joan, so ashamed. I'm afraid I'll make a fool of myself, see? So now I don't even try to go out. G.o.d knows what would happen if I had to.' Annie looked at Joan again, noticing the confident warmth in her eyes that made the painful silences bearable, and then she finally let go of the boulder. 'And I shouldn't be telling you all this I know your husband is a doctor and I'm so frightened they'll think I'm a mad woman and put me in the asylum.'

'My husband wouldn't,' Joan a.s.sured her, 'he's a really understanding doctor. I shan't tell him, Annie. But let me think about this it may be that I can help you.'

'You already have,' said Annie gratefully. 'I've got it off my chest.'

'But,' Joan wagged her finger, 'I can only help you if you really want to get over this.'

'I do.'

The two women smiled at each other and Joan raised a clenched fist, her eyes twinkling. 'Courage to change,' she said. 'That's what we need.'

When she had gone Annie felt better, more light-hearted. She even sang while she was making Freddie's meal. She looked at the clock. He should be home by now.

Annie sat in the window to watch for his motorbike coming up the street. For two hours she sat there through the sunset and into the twilight. She watched the lamplighter work his way along the street, and saw people hurrying home, bent against the North wind. She heard the six o'clock train puffing into the station.

But still Freddie didn't return.

By nine o'clock Annie was distraught. Wrapped in a shawl she paced round and round the cottage, up and down the stairs, looking out of different windows, opening them and listening, watching the distant hills for a moving cone of light that might be a motorbike. All night she paced and she prayed and in the deathly hush of early morning she fell exhausted into the rocking chair and slept, clutching Levi's dressing gown up to her chin.

At first light she was awoken by a thunderous knocking on the door. Terrified, she heaved herself up and struggled across the flagstone floor. She opened the door just a crack and peered out.

George stood there in a heavy winter coat, his face unshaven, his hair wild, and a grim expression on his face.

''Tis bad news,' he said. 'I had a telephone call, from a hospital up in Gloucester.'

Chapter Eighteen.

FLOATING.

Freddie had never been so comfortable in his life. He was floating on a cus.h.i.+on of deliciously warm air and the light streaming over him was intensely yellow like marsh marigolds. He looked down at his body lying in the hospital bed, its face deathly white, its blistered hands limp on the grey blanket, its knees and feet making orderly b.u.mps in the tightly tucked bed covers. He didn't want to go back into that body which was filled with pain and struggling to breathe.

Each time he looked down, his mind opened up a cavern of nightmares. Ian Tillerman's voice echoed in there, his eyes gleamed avariciously, he smelled of beer and horse manure and the stench engulfed Freddie like smoke from a wood fire, he had to breathe it and it stung and choked his lungs. Or he would see his motorbike sinking into the deep ca.n.a.l, bits of it s.h.i.+ning and bubbling, the handlebars and the headlight were the last to be submerged as the iron grey water closed over that particular pain. A b.l.o.o.d.y lout, Ian Tillerman had called him. A b.l.o.o.d.y lout.

For hours he had lain there on the bank of the ca.n.a.l, face down in the mud, the cold earth and the cold sky clamping him like the jaws of winter. Then the floating had started, floating on a cloud made of ice, watching, unable to speak, as his body was dumped on a khaki-coloured stretcher and pushed into the back of an ambulance.

The voices of nurses and doctors had burbled like a distant stream, and he'd felt hands peeling off his muddy clothes. Through half-open eyelids, he glimpsed Herbie's leather jacket being dropped into a basket, and the pain of thinking he would have to buy him another one sent Freddie deeper into a comatose state, and with the sleep came a profound feeling of surrender as he let go and drifted into the shadows.

Over three days, the darkness of his floating place trans.m.u.ted into deep colours, ultramarine and crimson, and in the crimson phase he became aware of smells. He lifted his arm and sniffed his skin, vaguely hoping for a rea.s.suring whiff of oil and stone dust, but it reeked of Sunlight soap and Dettol. A pungent tang of camphor hovered around him, and a mild ointmenty smell from the chilblains on his fingers. The s.p.a.ce beyond his bed swished and clanked, and squeaked with footsteps, and the alarming rhythmic groans from the man in the next bed. Even more alarming was the shrill rasp of his own breath cutting into his ribs like a bread knife.

Freddie was not rea.s.sured by the amorphous shape of a doctor in a white coat sitting uncomfortably close to him, and the starched ap.r.o.n of a nurse bending over him. Freddie had never been in a hospital and he was terrified. He struggled to see the nurse's face, and she was frowning like a bulldog. She had his arm in a vicelike grip.

'Keep still or this will hurt,' she said sharply and a stinging pain drove into his bicep. He heard a man's voice saying 'This will make you sleepy, Mr Barcussy.'

Blissfully it faded and he returned to the floating place, so warm and soft now that he no longer wanted to look down at his body lying there. He wanted to go with the man in a cream robe who smelled of meadow hay and boot polish, a s.h.i.+ning man who was leading him down an avenue of lime trees. At the end of the avenue was an archway in a high wall with golden flowers hanging over the top of it. Freddie could see a familiar figure standing here, waiting for him. Levi!

He paused, then walked up to his father and looked deeply into the translucence of his eyes, old familiar eyes but different now. The weariness and the gloom, the frustration and the rage had gone, leaving a mysterious contentment. Freddie felt they were both weightless, suspended like feathers on the wind, and he sensed himself absorbing the essence of that sparkle in Levi's eyes.

'Now I'll tell you something,' Levi said in his normal voice. He put his hand on Freddie's left shoulder, its comforting warmth radiant like the heat from a flame. 'That Ian Tillerman. Don't you let 'im take your life. He's lying. He's lying, Freddie.'

Freddie stared into his luminous eyes and felt a change moving over him. Coral-coloured, it wound itself around his shoulders like the hug Levi was giving him now.

'I'm sorry, son. Don't you ever be like me.'

'I've forgiven you, Dad,' said Freddie, and Levi beamed, the smile magically bringing them closer than they had ever been.

Levi stood back and Freddie gazed beyond him into the archway, curiously observing a garden where trees glittered like jewellery and everything danced with colours. Across it was a lattice of brilliant gold.

'No,' said Levi firmly. 'You gotta go back, Freddie. Go on. Go back.'

Freddie nodded. He turned and floated back, still light as air, the man in the cream robe drifting beside him. He looked back once and saw Levi watching him, waving, then melting into the webs of light. The tingle of his feet reconnecting with the earth made him stronger, but still he couldn't hear his footsteps. What he could hear, louder and louder, was a rus.h.i.+ng sound in his ears, a voice speaking his name.

'Mr Barcussy. Come on. Open your eyes.'

He came back with a jolt into the body lying on the bed. The pain had eased and his skin felt cool and soft, his body relaxed on comfortable pillows. Gradually the nurse's face came into focus. She was smiling now, a slim gla.s.s thermometer in her hand.

'Welcome back,' she said. 'We nearly lost you.'

Freddie was ill for many weeks. After George had driven his lorry all the way to Gloucester and fetched him home, he lay in bed watching and listening.

His hearing was super sensitive and so attuned to the land beyond the town that he could hear the quack of herons pa.s.sing overhead at dawn, and the unearthly sharp yelping of foxes, and in the mornings the squeak of ice being broken and crisp leaves being crunched underfoot. At nine forty-five he listened for the cattle train pa.s.sing through, and the distressed cries of sheep and cows crowded together, terrified, their faces pressed to the slatted openings, their noses sniffing the fresh turfy fields where they had grazed. He felt their desperation.

Annie lumbered up and down stairs with trays of home-baked meals. She brought him a new drawing book and a pencil, but he didn't want to draw. He just wanted to stare out at the winter sky. The clouds created curling images of faces and ferry boats, lions and angels. Strangely, the illness was a gift of time to Freddie's artistic soul, each change of the light adding to his storehouse of ideas waiting to be carved in stone. He dreamed of carving in marble or alabaster, his fingers coaxing a smooth translucence from the rough blocks.

At night he kept the curtains open to the starlight, watching and learning to read the night sky. His room faced west and he lay on his side and watched for the planet Venus, as Granny Barcussy had taught him in his childhood. 'Venus follows the sun,' she'd said, and her eyes had sparkled. 'And it's the planet of love.'

So Freddie stared at it, and wondered if Kate was seeing it too. He'd shown it to her once, at Hilbegut Farm in the twilight when the western sky flushed pink, then duck-egg green smoothly blending into indigo, and they'd gazed at the big bright star together.

Thinking of Kate was too painful most of the time, but he had to do it. He had to plod his way through the pain until he had overcome it with his own strength. There was a molecule of hope in Levi's words, 'He's lying,' but Freddie didn't cling to it. Kate had stopped writing to him, she was far away making a new life, and, worse, she had cut her hair. That news in her last letter, had upset Freddie. He couldn't imagine Kate with short hair, yet she'd said it made her feel liberated. Liberated from what? Was being beautiful such a burden? Supposing he had carved a stone angel with short hair? It bothered Freddie in an inexplicably sensitive part of his soul, and when he dreamed of Kate it was always with the sensual memory of her hair twined in his fingers. At least, he thought, Ian Tillerman wasn't going to have that particular delight.

One morning just before Christmas, on the day of the winter solstice, Freddie sensed a change. At first light he got out of bed and stood at the window, watching the sunrise reflected in the windows across the street. The weather was mild and spring-like. He opened the window and breathed deeply, smelling the steam trains and the flooded Levels beyond. A song thrush was singing with its whole being, like an opera singer filling the awakening town with exuberant music. 'The first bird to sing at the turn of the year,' thought Freddie, his eyes searching until he saw the slim shape of the thrush high on the apex of a roof, the sun gilding its speckled breast, its beak lifted to the sky. It filled him with longing to carve a singing bird. But how would he put the song inside the stone?

Though his legs were weak, Freddie climbed into his clothes and dragged himself downstairs and out into the yard. There was his stone angel, illuminated by the sunrise, and it startled him to see it. Had he done that? He stood in front of it, filled with an overpowering sadness as he looked at Kate's beautiful face, captured in the stone, forever frozen, no longer laughing, no longer turning her big eyes to gaze into his face.

A maelstrom of negative feelings gusted through him. Bitterness, vengeful thoughts towards Ian Tillerman, a slow burning fury that made him want to raise an axe high in the air and smash the stone angel into hundreds of pieces. He let the thoughts pa.s.s through like a crowd of people stampeding to some event that didn't interest Freddie. He could turn his back and walk away. Those thoughts did not belong to him.

Blessed with the gift of peace, he stood thinking, his eyes exploring the blocks of stone waiting to be carved, and the red roof of his lorry still parked outside the garden wall, waiting for him. 'I gotta get on with it,' he thought. 'With or without Kate.'

And as he thought those words he was suddenly remembering another pair of eyes. Ethie's eyes. They were pale, pale blue with a cl.u.s.ter of yellow in the centre of the iris, yellow like the eyes of a sparrow hawk. Her eyes were focused on him, compelling him to interpret some silent message coded within that ring of yellowness.

Since his visions were usually of spirit people, Freddie was surprised to see Ethie in such a way. He frowned, concentrating on the deeper meaning, and saw that Ethie was lying on her back, looking at him, trying to ask him some question that smouldered on her mind. She was floating, and the river glistened as it carried her away, her face glaring at the sky.

'Freddie!' Annie cried out in surprise. 'You're up and dressed. At last.'

He turned to see his mother emerge from the bakery, drying her hands on a towel.

'Don't you get cold now,' she tried to hustle him inside.

'I'm all right,' he said. 'I gotta get on with it now. Earn some money.'