‘Bertie could be right about Fred Yates’s cottage, mind,’ Connie said. ‘People have seen lights there at night, courting couples and poachers mainly, and there are rumours about a woman living there. Someone who keeps to herself. The farmer hasn’t let the place. It needs too much work before he could do that. But a woman is definitely living there, although no one knows who she is.’
Stella looked at the purse, which contained seventeen and sixpence ha’penny. ‘I’d return it myself, but I have to do some work on the allotment this afternoon. I promised Colin I’d sieve a patch of ground for some seeds.’
‘I’ll walk across there this afternoon with Geoff, if you like,’ Connie offered. ‘Half-day closing for us as well as the post office, remember. Geoff and I usually go for a walk after the deliveries.’
Connie and her husband, Geoff Tanner, owned the local hardware store. They had only been married a few weeks, but although Connie had been a newcomer to Cwm Derw, she had settled into the small South Wales town and had become an accepted part of it. They lived in the rooms above the double-sized shop premises on the corner of Steeple Street and, not having a garden, they usually walked through the fields or on the local beaches whenever they were free.
Every Wednesday, after the shop closed at one o’clock, they went out in the van to deliver paraffin and any other goods that had been ordered. Once the round was finished they set off either by van to the nearest beach or on foot through the fields. That day they went by direct route to the lane leading to the farm cottage. The day was clear and mild, with the excitement of spring in the air. Birdsong filled the woods and hedgerows, new growth startled the eye with its bold greenness and everywhere was the promise of wonderful days to come.
When they reached the poor, shabby cottage they knocked but there was no reply, and Geoff tried the door, which opened easily. He called but no one answered.
‘Should we just leave the purse?’ Connie asked, but Geoff shook his head.
‘It’s a pity to waste an opportunity to talk to her, find out a little about her in case she’s in trouble.’ He took a page from his order book and wrote a short note, explaining that the purse had been found, and, if it belonged to her, she would find it either at the post office or Tanner’s hardware store.
Unable to resist giving in to their curiosity, they stood for a while looking into the neat but sparsely furnished room. The fire burned low in the oven range, a red glow almost invisible amid grey wood ash. The curtains across the windows made the room dark and it didn’t seem a very inviting place in which to live. Derelict farm buildings were the only neighbours, empty fields and silent woodland beyond, and beside it the lane, which went no further that the muddy yard.
The fire settled in the grate with a display of sparks, startling them, and they knew it would soon be dead. Wood didn’t last long without coal to bank it up and when the woman returned she would probably have to relight it before she could make herself a hot drink.
The room smelled of fruit and spices, edged with the sharpness of vinegar.
‘She’s been making pickles, or has spilled some,’ Connie whispered.
In the distance they heard singing on the calm, still air. Someone was approaching and at once they darted out of the doorway and closed the door, giggling like guilty children.
Then they turned to greet the person they presumed would be the tenant for whom they were looking.
In the lane, Sophie Daniels stopped singing as she saw a movement near the door of the cottage. She threw down the now empty baskets, and hid behind the thick trunk of an oak.
Geoff had seen her but, not wanting to frighten her, he said loudly, ‘Come on, then, let’s go home, love. She isn’t here. We’ll leave the note and she’ll know where to find us.’ Holding hands, he and Connie walked away, watched by a nervous Sophie.
Allowing time for them to get well away, even following them for a while to make sure they were really leaving, Sophie went back to the cottage and slipped inside. She didn’t pick up the note: it might tell her she had no right to be there, and demand that she leave. She shivered and began to add screwed-up paper and kindling to the still warm ashes of the fire.
Kneeling on the rag mat she slowly added more wood until the blaze lit the room. How she would hate to leave this place. It was the first place that had even remotely felt like a home since her family had died. There had been many other places but this was the only one she could honestly call home. Her thoughts drifted, remembering places she had used as she had wandered without any purpose, begging at times, selling her produce when she settled for long enough to make any, and working occasionally – when she felt able to cope with other people for a time. She earned enough to feed herself, but there wasn’t a lot of money left in the post office – not enough to pay rent unless she touched the bank account and she didn’t want to do that, the money was tainted.
It was much later, after she had gone outside out for a last look at the sky before trying to sleep, that she read the note. It made her sad. They had been so kind, bringing it and trying to find her. But how could she go and collect her purse from strangers? They would ask questions and news would spread and she would be told to leave. Better to lose the few shillings the purse contained than risk that.
A week passed and Geoff and Connie still had the purse. It was the fickle month of April and the weather had become cold, the promise of spring forgotten. There was even a thin covering of snow one morning, and Connie wondered how the lonely woman was coping. She imagined her getting out of bed and coaxing the fire into life before being able to boil water for a cup of tea. She shivered at her sad imaginings.
‘Not worth going to the beach today,’ Geoff said. ‘But we could—’
‘Visit Sophie Daniels again,’ Connie finished for him. They laughed at the confirmation of their togetherness.
This time they took the van, and in the back Geoff placed a couple of half-full sacks of coal, mostly dust and small pieces, which, together with wood, could be used to bank up the fire and keep it alight for a few hours. It began to rain and the rarely used lane was quickly reduced to mud, the ridges previously left by vehicles collapsing and making the wheels sink until Geoff was afraid they might become stuck. He parked on a high area where a cobbled surface was still visible and, while Connie waited at the door, behind which she could hear the woman singing, he carried the sacks and placed them in a sheltered spot and covered them with several empty sacks to keep them dry.
The singing stopped and the door remained firmly closed. They knocked and called softly, assuring her they had only called to return her purse.
‘There’s a mistake, it isn’t mine,’ she replied after a few minutes had passed, her voice high pitched and light.
‘It’s all right, we haven’t come to pry,’ Connie said. She pushed the red purse under the door, where the earthen floor had been worn down by hundreds of feet passing through. ‘Nor to ask questions,’ she added. ‘We’ll help if you need it but won’t call again, unless you invite us.’
The rain was persistent, drumming on the ground and playing a tattoo on the black umbrella Connie held. They moved away and began to walk towards the van. The door scraped harshly against the floor and they stopped and turned. Sophie opened the door wide and invited them in. They were both shocked to see a young and rather beautiful girl, not the frail old woman they had expected.
Somehow the room looked different with her there. The fire sent its cheerful glow on to the walls. Brightly patterned curtains and cushions were spread across the shabby furniture, which had presumably been left by previous tenants. On closer examination, Connie saw that the fabrics were worn and old, and the curtains were ill fitting, obviously intended for other windows, but the effect was of a cosy, comfortable room.
Connie held out the purse. ‘Mr Francis found it and it was Bertie Grange, a young boy who wanders the fields when he should be in school, who told us it might belong to you.’
‘Thank you. You�
��re very kind.’
They turned to go and Geoff said. ‘I hope you don’t mind but we have rather a lot of small coal and we brought it in the hope you might use it. We’ll take it away if you prefer.’
‘We really don’t want to intrude,’ Connie assured her. ‘But you might find it useful for keeping the fire alight while you’re out.’
‘I go to the markets and sell what I make – it’s a long journey but I can only carry a little each time.’ She spoke vaguely, almost as though she wasn’t interested in them, so they were both surprised when she invited them to see her store.
The day was gloomy, and, carrying a torch and wrapped in an oversized mackintosh, she led them behind the cottage to the storeroom that had once been a stable, the hay containers still fixed to the wall. The bright beam of the torch shone around and they saw two well-scrubbed tables, large preserving pans, ladles, wooden spoons of many sizes, empty jars and row upon row of jams and preserves.
Sophie watched them but said nothing, and, feeling ashamed, as though their kindness had been a front for nosiness, Connie and Geoff made their excuses and left.
As they were getting into the van, a small figure appeared and a voice called, ‘It’s called Threeways. Daft name, innit?’
‘What are you doing out here in this weather, Bertie?’ Connie demanded. ‘You’d better get in and we’ll take you home.’
‘The house where the crazy woman lives, it’s called Threeways,’ he repeated.
‘Why do you call her a crazy woman?’
‘Always singing, that’s why.’
‘And that means she’s crazy?’ Connie laughed, and she and Geoff at once began to sing, ‘It ain’t gonna rain no more no more, it ain’t gonna rain no more.’
‘You’re crazy, too,’ was Bertie’s bored response.
They stopped outside the house in which he told them he lived, but when he got out he ran off and disappeared in the gloom of the late afternoon.
‘I wonder where he really lives,’ Geoff mused. ‘He certainly didn’t want us to know, yet it can hardly be a secret. Not in a small town like Cwm Derw.’
‘Some mother he’s got, letting him wander the way he does, and in this weather, too. I think I’ll ask Stella where he lives. She’s bound to know.’
In the shadows, Bertie stared wistfully after the van, wishing he could have gone home with them, just for a while, instead of going to his own home, where his mother would be sleeping, unless she was out with friends. He fingered the sixpence Geoff had slipped into his cold hand and turned towards Gwennie Flint’s. Chips for his solitary supper again.
*
A hundred miles away, Daphne Boyd was packing clothes and toilet items into two RAF pannier bags, which were fixed to the back of her bicycle. With three friends, she was planning a cycling holiday, staying at youth hostels and heading for South Wales. The choice had not been hers, but she was pleased to agree. However slight, there was a chance of finding Sophie Daniels. She had tried every lead but without success, and the only hope was to travel through the area where her friend had once lived and ask at every town and village they passed.
Before she left, she sat and wrote down everything she could remember Sophie telling her about her old home. Barry Island had been a regular place for summer visits, and Cardiff, with its castle and fine shops. She studied her map and saw with growing dismay just how many villages were contained between those two centres. Packing the map into one of the panniers, she shrugged. At least she’d have a good holiday, and finding Sophie would be a bonus.
*
Tommy Treweather, the farmer who owned the farmhouse and cottage, knew about their uninvited tenant but decided not to complain. The house was no use to him; in fact, it would be demolished when he got around to it. A builder had told him it was past repair. The cost would be more than the value of it once the work was done. And who would want to live in an isolated cottage propped against a farmhouse at the end of a lane leading nowhere?
From what he had seen by peering through windows, the woman was living on the ground floor, so there was no real danger to her. The ground floor was sound enough. It was just the roof that seriously needed attention, and that, together with the other work needed, made it too expensive to bother.
March and April were very busy months on the farm and he really didn’t want to get involved. He thought he might go and see her or send one of the boys, to explain about the roof in case she went upstairs, but winter was behind them and it was unlikely she would stay much longer. He hadn’t seen her but presumed she was a woman wandering the roads, some lonely old tramp. Always plenty of those about. Perhaps, if she stayed more than a few more weeks, he would report her to the authorities and maybe get her placed in a home for vagrants. He discussed it with his sons, Ryan and Gareth, and they decided that for the meantime, while they were busy with lambing and the many other seasonal jobs on the land, they would ignore her presence.
He stood shielded by the overgrown hedge, his eyes moist as he looked down at the house where he and Rachel had lived and brought up the boys. It looked so derelict it was hard to remember it as it had been then. Gareth and Ryan had persuaded him to build a new farmhouse and move out, but after what they had told him this morning he wished he hadn’t bothered.
He’d been so thrilled when Rachel had given birth to boys, imagining the land being passed on to another generation and perhaps surviving to see grandchildren taking the same interest as he had as a boy. Continuity was his dream, to retire some day soon so he and Rachel could enjoy themselves, be free of the long days and worrying times and watch their sons take over. Instead, a few words, and everything was ruined.
As they had sat down to breakfast after two hours of routine work, like they did every morning of the year, they had told him neither of them wanted to stay. There would only be his nephew, his brother’s son, Owen, which meant he and Rachel would have to continue well into old age – or sell.
It was 1949 but still the war was blamed for everything that was wrong with the country. Perhaps the six years of the conflict were responsible for unsettling Ryan and Gareth. Making the stay-at-home life of a farmer unacceptable. Perhaps if they hadn’t taken the opportunity to leave and see a wider horizon they might have remained. Foolishly the words of a popular song came into his mind: “How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm, now that they’ve seen Paree?” Yet they hadn’t left the country, just moved far enough away from Treweather Farm to glimpse the possibilities of another kind of life.
‘You’re in a reserved occupation, you don’t have to join the army,’ Rachel had pleaded with them.
‘But we do,’ Ryan had insisted.
‘Cowards we’ll be if we stay,’ Gareth had added.
Two years away and never leaving the country, yet it had been enough for them to decide that farming the land owned by their forbears was not what they wanted.
He turned away from the quiet scene with its memories of a time when everything had been certain, and headed back to the new farmhouse, where he had never felt at home.
There was no sign of the boys when he reached the yard. He heard the sound of laughter and turning the corner saw Rachel trying to fasten clothes to the washing line, Owen helping.
‘Where are the boys?’ he asked.
‘Gone into town,’ Rachel replied. ‘They said something about an appointment but they were vague about what it was.’
‘Ryan wants to teach,’ Owen told them. ‘They’ve gone to see about going back to college.’
Without another word, Tommy stomped into the porch and threw off his wellingtons, as if they were to blame for his sons’ disloyalty. Standing at the door he said irritably. ‘You can go and see that old woman living in our cottage and tell her to leave. Right?’
Owen nodded, but didn’t look too pleased.
‘She isn’t doing any harm,’ Rachel whispered. ‘Best do as he says, though. Upset he is, with both Gareth and Ryan telling him they aren’t going to stay.’
‘Don’t worry, Auntie Rachel, they might change their minds, and I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere,’ he assured her. ‘At least you can rely on me.’
*
On Sundays Geoff Tanner brought his books up to date and then he and Connie were free. This Sunday rain fell unceasingly and the air was chill, so instead of going for a walk and getting soaked they decided to check on the house Geoff owned, Badgers Brook. It had been empty for a while, and although Geoff appeared to be looking for new tenants Connie knew he was not. He was waiting until someone turned up who was in need of it.
Badgers Brook was a strange house, always attracting people in trouble, and giving them a place to stay while they solved their difficulties. She knew that Geoff superstitiously believed that the house found its own occupants, and in this she indulged him, even though she doubted the truth of it.
It was a fact, however, that she had experienced its soothing atmosphere herself, when she had come to Cwm Derw after the break-up of a love affair. It was while she was living there that she had met and married Geoff. She knew how calm, soothing and relaxing the house was, how it seemed to ease away pain and allow time for meditation and healing. She remembered the luxury of sleeping soundly and waking refreshed, with a clear vision of what was needed to solve problems that had once seemed overwhelming. But surely it was to do with who lived there, not the stones of its walls?
They drove down the lane with the woods on their left and, on their right, through trees that were not yet fully in leaf, they saw it. Connie was aware of a lifting of her spirits even though she was far from unhappy. There was something strange, even enchanting, about the place, however hard she tried to deny it.
They went into the house, which still smelled fresh, the windows regularly opened by Kitty Jennings, who lived on the lane. Through the living-room window that overlooked the back garden, they saw someone digging. ‘Bob Jennings,’ Geoff said with a smile. ‘He loves working on this garden. He can’t keep away, even though there isn’t a tenant.’
A New Beginning Page 3
