Ryan helped her into the passenger seat and drove down the lane, but although she wanted to look back for a final glimpse of her temporary home, she couldn’t. In the van close behind them she’d have met the angry gaze of Owen Treweather.
Ryan didn’t stay. He carried her belongings inside and after seeing that a fire was burning in the living room and there was a kettle ready filled on the gas cooker he left her to sort herself out.
*
Owen was furious. Being made to look foolish in front of that woman was the very end. For years he had suffered the constant reminders of his lowly position in the family. He and the twins had the same grandfather; he belonged on Treweather land as much as they did.
Something twisted within him as he stood on the field amid the sheep, looking around him at the land owned by Tommy. He was a Treweather, and therefore entitled to his share of the family money, and if he wasn’t going to be given it then he would take it. Right was on his side even though the law was not.
As he walked back to where he had parked the van he saw Sarah. In his present mood his anger and frustration at the way his life was going simply overflowed. ‘What are you doing here? You don’t have the right to walk these fields.’
‘A few branches of catkins? If you can’t spare them you can have them back!’ She thrust the branches at him and turned away.
She was trying not to cry when she met Bertie from school. She thought a couple of branches with the catkins might have cheered her a little. He even had to spoil that for them.
The accommodation she had found for them was even sadder than before. A rather dark room at the back of a house with a shared kitchen and an outside lavatory. What a mess she had made of her life. ‘Hurry up,’ she said to Bertie as he scuttled along in shoes that were a couple of sizes too large. ‘I’ve got things to do if we’re going to get settled before bed time.’
‘I’m hungry, Mam.’
‘We’ll have some toast later if I can get the fire to draw properly.’
‘Can’t I go and see Miss? She always has something nice to eat.’
‘No, and you must stop bothering her, d’you hear me?’
Bertie kicked out at a dandelion and his shoe sailed through the air. He laughed but Sarah didn’t.
*
At Badgers Brook the furniture Sophie had bought had arrived and she busied herself setting it out and making up the bed in the room she had chosen: one that overlooked the garden. Then she checked inside and out and was pleased to find a store of wood and some coal. A note on the kitchen table had welcomed her to her new home and contained an explanation of the workings of the geyser in the bathroom and a few other pieces of information.
She was anxious when a knock at the door heralded a visitor; she wasn’t ready to face new people. But she looked around the house as though seeking encouragement then pulled back her shoulders and went to face the beginning of her new life.
The caller was the first of several, neighbours mostly, as well as Betty Connors, who left the Ship and Compass in her brother’s reluctant care to bring Welsh cakes – the flat spicy cakes cooked on a griddle – plus coal and salt for luck. Gradually Sophie relaxed and accepted the welcoming visits, which were friendly and mercifully short. None stayed to ask questions, the thing she had most dreaded.
A few days later Badgers Brook had woven its spell and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Her reticence was simply ignored, and a stream of visitors continued to pass through, bringing small gifts, offering help if needed, and wishing her well. The town of Cwm Derw had taken her to its heart.
*
Stella’s shop had a queue down to the corner and around into the next street. Sweets were off ration from the 24th April and the children were not alone in wanting to give themselves a treat. Colin worked on the railway and as he was on a late shift he was free to go to the wholesalers for replenishments as the stocks ran low.
‘Damn me,’ he said when he had to go a second time. ‘At this rate they’ll be back on ration again soon!’ He was unaware of how prophetic his words would be.
When the doors finally closed on the post office, and with the last of the customers’ complaints at having to wait ten minutes to buy a stamp ringing in her ears, Stella called at Badgers Brook with Colin, bringing a box of plants. ‘Herbs they are, a bit small, mind, but well rooted. Marvellous gardener, my Colin, we’ve got an allotment – you must come and have a cup of tea in our country cottage.’
Sophie was curious as she had presumed they lived behind the post office, but, typically, she refrained from asking where the country cottage might be. She didn’t want to answer questions so tried not to ask any.
Kitty and Bob Jennings came with cakes and a precious packet of tea, spared from their small ration, explaining. ‘You’ll never keep up with us all popping in to say hello, otherwise.’ She laughed then. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be as bad as you fear. Once you settle in and people have all had a good nose they’ll leave you alone.’
The one visitor she had expected didn’t come. Ryan Treweather seemed to have forgotten all about her. She wasn’t sure whether she was disappointed or relieved. Close friendship was not what she was looking for. She was all alone in the world and, being alone, she needed to be alone to sort out her feelings.
*
Three cyclists had travelled fifty miles in the rain and decided not to continue for another ten as planned, but stay in the next town they reached. They found a bed and breakfast where the landlady kindly dried their wet clothes and fed them generously before showing them a room with three single beds. Their next destination was only ten miles away, so, accepting that they were a day behind their schedule, tomorrow would be an easy day. Time to explore. Before they set off the following morning, Daphne asked at the post office if there was a Sophie Daniels living in the area but, as so many times before, the answer was no.
*
Sophie had allowed herself a week to settle in and then she had to face up to her fears and find a job. While her mind spun with the number of ways in which she could earn a little money she explored the garden. It seemed well stocked and she wondered who had looked after it since the previous tenants had left. In a sheltered corner rhubarb was still protected by broken upside-down buckets filled with straw, and the pale pink stems were already tall and strong. They would make some attractively coloured jams. Fruit bushes and trees were an exciting find, and there were a few spindly leeks and some winter cabbages left. Vegetable seeds were planted in neatly sieved ground with labels showing what each row held. Carrots, radishes, parsnips, peas. Some were already breaking through the earth. The rest of the vegetable garden was dug ready for the new planting and she lifted handfuls of the rich loam to her face, its smell filling her with indefinable excitement.
Brambles were growing in a sunny corner and she picked some of the freshly sprouted leaves for drying to make a substitute tea. Kitty Jennings had been right about the need for tea to supply her many visitors. She would drink the substitute tea, and the coffee-flavour drink she made from the roots of dandelion, and save the ration for them.
There were a few things she still needed, and, carrying one of her large baskets, she walked to the end of the lane and caught the bus into the town. The post office was empty and Stella persuaded her to stay for a cup of tea, telling her to go in and make it. Three cats ran off, deeply offended at being disturbed, and the little dog wagged his tail then settled back to sleep. She carried the tray into the shop and, sitting on a chair beside the counter, answered Stella’s questions while managing not to tell her all she wanted to know.
When she left, grasping a hastily drawn map that she was told would lead her to Stella and Colin’s allotment and country cottage, she headed for the second-hand shop in the hope of some plates and dishes. On the corner, not far from where the bus stopped, she saw a small figure bending over and selecting things from the gutter. She didn’t call but walked towards him. He hid what he had in his hand and
looked guilty.
‘Hello, miss. Where’ve you got to? I’ve been to the cottage but it’s empty.’
‘What are you doing, Bertie?’ she asked, making a grab for his hand, which was making a tight fist. ‘Let me see, please. I’m not going to harm you.’ Slowly a grubby hand uncurled to reveal three cigarette ends.
‘Bertie! Surely you don’t smoke these filthy things?’
‘Not me, miss, but there’s an old man who lives under the railway arch who does. I get him some when no one’s looking so he don’t have to go out in the rain, see.’
‘Doesn’t have to go out in the rain,’ she corrected automatically.
‘Doesn’t have to go out. He sleeps in his clothes and it can’t be no – any good for him, can it, miss?’
She smiled her slow, gentle smile and held out her hand. ‘I think it’s best not to collect them for him. They aren’t clean, you see, and they could harm him. Besides, I think your mother would be upset if she saw you, don’t you?’
‘She does fuss a bit, miss.’
‘Will you let me walk home with you?’
‘No need, I’ve got a brand new bike over there.’ He pointed vaguely towards the row of houses adjoining the post office and ran off. She went around the other end of the row and watched as he walked disconsolately away. The new bike was a dream, and she knew all about dreams.
A few days later he called at Badgers Brook and offered to show her where the badgers lived. She invited him in and after they had shared a meal of sour milk cheese and soda bread she again asked why he wasn’t at school. He coughed loudly and theatrically and explained he was too ill to go. She encouraged him to talk about his favourite lessons and those he disliked, trying to pick up a clue to tell her the real reason he avoided school.
The following morning there was a loud knocking at the door and Sophie left the salad she was making and went to open it, smiling in expectation of seeing one of her new friends. A woman stood there, someone she hadn’t seen before.
‘I’ve called to ask you to please stop encouraging my Bertie to stay away from school,’ she said. She was fair, her face pale, the blue eyes gentle. She stared as she waited for Sophie’s response. Her voice was soft, without anger, even breathless with anxiety.
Sophie stared at her in surprise. ‘Are you Bertie’s mother?’
‘I am, and I’ve had the school board man round again this morning.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I send him off every morning but he never gets to the school gates. I want you to stop inviting him here.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs – er – but I have no control over your son. Do you have any idea why he isn’t attending?’
The woman shrugged. ‘He says he gets muddled with arithmetic, but he won’t let me help.’
‘Perhaps, if we put our heads together, we might work out a way to help him.’ Sophie opened the door wider and invited the woman inside.
‘He hasn’t got a father, see, but that applies to many of his friends and they don’t cause their mothers such trouble.’
‘Mitching from school isn’t such a terrible crime, and it’s usually sorted fairly easily. Don’t let the school board man frighten you, Mrs…’ Again she allowed a pause, inviting the woman to give her name, but it was ignored.
Sophie made tea and brought out some small cakes flavoured with honey and cinnamon. They discussed the various reasons for Bertie avoiding school and his mother admitted to letting him wander as and where he wanted, without much attempt at controlling him.
‘I have to work, you see, having no husband, and my parents aren’t much help, so when I’m late home or I have to leave before he gets up in the mornings I really can’t be sure he does as I tell him.’
‘And you can’t change your job? Find something that will enable you to be home when he needs you?’
‘I’m not trained for anything. I worked in a factory during the war and when the war ended, being on my own, I stayed on there, making different things, of course, but still with the awkward shifts. I don’t have much choice, do I?’
‘Your husband?’ Sophie asked softly. ‘He was a victim of the war?’
‘Not him. He lives not two miles away and ignores us completely.’
‘How can that be?’
‘I had a baby, Bertie. It happened while he was away in the army, and he’ll never forgive me.’
The woman left soon after and Sophie sat for a long time thinking about what she had learned, and about Bertie. She’d been surprised to learn that Bertie was only eight, younger than she had imagined. Being allowed to run wild had given him a spurious adulthood and encouraged him to think he was too old to listen to the childish chatter of his classroom friends. After all, he was the man of the house, wasn’t he? Poor little love.
It wasn’t until later that day that she realized how easily she had got into conversation with the stranger at her door. A few short weeks ago she had been too afraid to say more than the few words necessary to sell her produce. She had changed so much, although the underlying fear of friendships and sharing her tragic history was still there. Would that ever leave her? She looked around her, at the walls of the house and through the windows at the garden and woods beyond, and knew that this was a haven, a place where she could lick her wounds and where, one day, she would recover.
She wondered about the absence of Ryan Treweather and decided that he, too, had simply wanted her to leave but had dealt with her removal in a more kindly manner. Whenever she thought of him she imagined him laughing.
One sunny afternoon she set off to explore the woods across the lane. The ground was muddy and she gathered a stick to use as support when she crossed particularly slippery places. She found the route used by animals crossing the stream, a well-worn path clearly seen. On the branches nearby and on wire fences she found coarse grey hairs and knew she was in the area used by badgers.
The sett was not far inside the trees, and she stood marvelling at its size and wondering if she could find a place to stand and wait for them to emerge one evening. She’d never seen one of the shy creatures and determined to try.
‘Don’t talk about it, or tell anyone where to find it,’ a voice warned, and she turned to see Ryan watching her from the shadows of the trees.
‘Hello, I didn’t see you there. I’m just exploring my new neighbourhood.’
‘You live near here?’
‘Of course I do!’ She laughed, presuming he was teasing.
‘I haven’t seen you around before. If we’d met I’d certainly have remembered.’ He was frowning and she became alarmed. From his expression he wasn’t joking. So why was he pretending not to know her?
‘Come on, you helped me to move,’ she said, edging away from him. ‘You remember that, surely? From Threeways cottage?’
His expression changed, his eyes softening from curiosity into amusement. ‘You’re the woman who lived in Threeways cottage?’
Still alarmed, she said, ‘I am the woman who lived in the cottage, you know that full well, so why the pretence?’
He stepped forward and held out a hand, the smile widening. ‘I’m Gareth Treweather, Ryan’s twin.’ He watched her as realization dawned. Then she tentatively held out her small slim hand. He held it and said, ‘I’ve only seen you from a a distance and I thought you were about eighty!’
‘Really? Why?’
‘You were wrapped in layers of shawls and blankets and you stooped, as though afraid to stare life in the face.’
She was startled by his observation. ‘I don’t bother much about clothes. And when you travel it’s the easiest way to carry them.’
‘Look, the farmhouse is only five minutes away, come and meet the rest of the family.’ Without giving her a chance to refuse he took her arm and guided her through a gate and across a field, beyond which the roof and smoking chimney were just visible over the hill.
Before they reached it, a man appeared, carrying two sticks across his shoulder, to which were tied a dozen rabbits. Sophie shudde
red and looked away. The man at once noticed her distress and dropped them to the ground and covered them with his coat.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked, offering a hand.
‘I don’t know her name but she was living in old Fred Yates’s cottage until recently.’ Introductions made, Peter Bevan went on his way, to tell his wife he’d met the newcomer to Cwm Derw.
‘Peter used to sell from a horse and cart but he’s recently opened a fruit and veg shop,’ she was told. ‘He sells off-ration rabbits and pigeons that he takes from our fields. Rooks, too, when food is short – it helps to feed families.’ There was a hint of disapproval in his voice, aware that she hadn’t liked the sight of dead animals, and presuming that, like most, she hated the evidence but never refused the food. Death of an animal was treated like murder but most willingly accepted the meat when it was cooked and offered on a plate.
‘I never eat meat,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear to look at a beautiful animal and imagine its end.’
‘Don’t tell my parents. It’s how we earn our living.’ The criticism was still there.
‘There has been so much killing,’ she murmured. ‘Too much. I can’t accept it, not even to help feed families.’
His disapproval was like a cloud settling around them. They walked in silence and she studied him and noted the ever so slight variations. Identical they might be, but to her there was a difference between the easy smile of Ryan and the more serious expression of Gareth. And there was a slight fullness around his face that Ryan lacked.
The twins’ parents were in the milking parlour, washing down from the evening milking. Without stopping their work they called a welcome and promised tea if she would give them five minutes – which turned out to be twenty.
Tea was set out on the huge kitchen table, which was dressed with a spotless white cloth and fine china. Sandwiches, cakes and home-made pickles were offered. Sophie admired it all but guessed this was their usual standard and not a show to impress a visitor. She asked about the pickles and explained about her own, sharing a few ideas with the twins’ rather serious-looking mother, Rachel. It all sounded friendly, but there was an edge, and she had the idea she was being judged and found wanting. Gareth must have told them about her distaste for meat. Like chalk and cheese, moral vegetarians and farmers could hardly be expected to mix.
A New Beginning Page 6
