‘How d’you know our Gareth?’ Tommy Treweather asked. ‘Not much of a social man, neither is Ryan.’
‘Ryan helped me to move my things when I left the cottage called Threeways.’
‘We met in the wood and she mistook me for Ryan,’ Gareth explained, with a smile similar to that of his twin.
‘You lived there? In Fred Yates’s cottage?’ Tommy glanced at his son, a puzzled expression on his weather-beaten face.
Sophie smiled. ‘Yes, I was the person the other farmer told to leave.’
‘Good heavens, I thought you were—’
‘At least eighty?’ she finished for him.
‘What’s she doing here?’ Owen stood in the doorway. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of her.’
Sophie stood, pushing back her chair. ‘I was invited,’ she began anxiously.
‘Stop fussing, Owen, and pour yourself a cup of tea,’ Tommy said, gesturing for her to sit.
‘But what’s she doing here? Living like a tramp she was, trespassing, making a mess of the place.’
Rachel lifted the large teapot and thrust it at him. ‘More hot water, please Owen,’ she said firmly. Turning to Sophie she said, ‘Take no notice of him, bad tempered he is, our Owen, but no real harm in him.’
‘Where is Ryan?’ Sophie asked and when Rachel explained Tommy snorted with obvious disapproval.
‘Gone for an interview. He’s restless. They both are. The war’s been over almost four years and he’s still finding it hard to settle.’
‘Ryan wants to teach,’ Gareth explained, ‘and Mam and Dad don’t want him to leave the farm.’
‘It’s been in the family for about six generations,’ Tommy added gruffly.
‘Long enough,’ Gareth muttered, glaring at his father.
Aware of an unfinished argument, Sophie concentrated on finishing her slice of seed-cake. Owen returned with the replenished teapot and Sophie was left with the idea that there was much more to be said. She was aware of a serious disagreement within the family, with Ryan and Gareth on one side, Rachel and Tommy on the other, she thought curiously, and with Owen watching both sides to see where his best interests lay.
When Sophie left, Gareth walking with her to the lane, Owen turned to his aunt and uncle. ‘Don’t encourage that one,’ he warned. ‘She’d be no use as a farmer’s wife. Soft and frail and I doubt there’ll be a good days work in her.’
‘I agree,’ Tommy said, pushing the plates away for Rachel to clear and opening the evening newspaper. ‘But our Gareth isn’t daft. He’ll see she isn’t the one to marry if he stays on the farm.’
‘If he stays,’ Rachel said sadly.
‘Oh he’ll stay, and so will Ryan,’ Tommy assured her with false conviction. ‘They’re just a bit restless, it’ll pass.’
‘They seem determined to go.’
‘Hush your worrying,’ Tommy warned.
Owen listened and said nothing.
*
Peter Bevan went to the shop, where his wife, Hope, was sorting out apples, discarding some and polishing others to replenish the window display. The box containing damaged fruit was full.
‘Not enough fat to make pastry,’ she told him after a kiss. ‘It will have to be stewed apples.’ She looked at the large boxful of damaged fruit. ‘Stewed apples for ever, by the look of this pile! I’ll be glad when we get into the season and the fresh British apples come onsale.’
‘If we can find some containers we can give these away. Plenty will be glad of a free treat, even without sugar.’
She carried the worst of the fruit through the shop to the kitchen wastebin while Peter tied the rabbits on a hook beside the shop doorway. ‘Did you know there’s a new tenant in Badgers Brook?’ he asked when she returned with a knife and a pan of water, to which she’d added salt to keep the cut apples from going brown.
‘Stella told me. A young woman on her own, I believe.’
‘I met her as I walked across the fields.’ He laughed. ‘Upset about the rabbits, she was, probably one of those vegetarians. She was going to the farm with Gareth – or Ryan. Never could tell which is which of those two.’
Hope had been the most recent tenant of Badgers Brook and she was curious. ‘D’you think she might like a few apples? According to Stella, this Sophie Daniels makes chutneys and jams.’
‘Be honest, love, it isn’t chutneys you’re thinking about, it’s curiosity. You want to go for a good nose, find out all you can about her.’
‘All right,’ she said with a laugh, ‘I want to go because I’m “nosy”, will you come?’
‘Of course. I’m nosy too.’
Jason, the horse who was no longer needed to pull the cart, lived in a nearby field. On Wednesday they fitted his head harness and rein and, sitting three-year-old Davy astride him, they walked down the lane then tethered him to the gate where he could crop the sweet grass on the wide verge. Lifting the little boy down, and carrying the best of the damaged fruit, they knocked on the door of Badgers Brook with a strange feeling, having been able to walk straight in only a short while ago. Hope had lived there with her first husband, Ralph, and Davy, and built up a dressmaking business after she was widowed.
Knocking on the door of her one-time home brought her no sensation of regret; she and Peter were very happy together, and Ralph a distant and sad memory.
The door opened at once, the welcoming smile widening as Sophie recognized Peter. ‘The man with the rabbits,’ she said, inviting them inside.
‘You’ll no doubt be better pleased with what Hope has brought,’ he said, after introducing his wife.
Sophie was delighted with the fruit, offering to pay, telling them she would make some apple and mint jelly. ‘I’ll save a jar for you,’ she promised. She showed them the jars of produce she had made and remarked on the difficulty of finding enough sugar and empty jars. The jars each had a neat label and a covering of gingham. Peter looked thoughtful.
They didn’t stay long but later Peter delivered a box filled with empty jars of varying sizes. ‘Fill them and I’ll sell them,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘I’d never make enough to supply a shop, but I’ll bear the idea in mind.’
‘A few will do, to start. Come and talk to us when you’re ready.’
Starting a new business was still far from easy, especially when rationed goods were involved. But with perseverance and a polite manner Sophie thought she could persuade people to save their jars for her and even exchange other rationed goods for sugar. She had never used her meat or bacon ration but found it difficult to offer those; it would be condoning the slaughter of animals even though she didn’t eat the meat herself.
It wouldn’t be a proper business but selling to Hope and Peter would be less time consuming than travelling to the market at Macs Hir, and would perhaps prolong the time before she needed to use the money in the bank. Then she admitted she was pretending. There was hardly any money left in the post office account now she had paid rent and bought her few pieces of furniture.
The jars she took to the shop were each capped with a circle of gingham, some red, some blue and a few green. The shop was busy but only Peter was serving.
‘Where’s your wife?’ she asked in a brief lull.
‘Hope has her own business,’ he explained. ‘A dressmaker she is. Go through if you want a word.’ He stared at the jars and added, ‘See what Hope thinks of the idea of using the tops as a sort of trademark. Some material that’s different from the rest. You never know, a real business could develop and you’ll be glad of a recognizable style.’
‘I’d like to talk to both of you,’ she replied.
‘Then if you can wait until one o’clock? I close the shop for lunch then.’
The idea of using her natural skills to try new combinations and sell her own unique recipes was exciting, and perhaps one day she might develop it into a proper business, once rationing finally ended. Meanwhile, she had to find some hours each day to earn money. The rent, the he
ating and lighting, her daily food, as well as the finances needed to build the business, could never be found out of the small quantities she could make. She had to find work.
*
Later she went to where the badgers roamed, and sat relaxing with the gentle sounds of the wood surrounding her, going through the possibilities. She had begun to train as a teacher before she had volunteered for the WAAFs. Opening a nursery was a possibility, with more women wanting, and, in many cases, needing, to work, but that didn’t marry very easily with her cooking plans. So much preparation was needed to run a nursery successfully that there would be little time for anything else. And Geoff and Connie might not allow it anyway.
She heard someone moving noisily through the trees and waited until Bertie appeared, dusty, covered with dead leaves and dragging a large branch. ‘Here, miss, look at this, make a few good logs won’t it?’
‘Oi, you!’ Suddenly Owen appeared and chased the boy off, threatening him with the police if he trespassed there again. Sophie went to run after him but Owen stood in her way.
‘Going somewhere?’ Owen Treweather stared at her, a deep, disapproving frown on his brow.
She tried to push past him. ‘How could you speak to a child like that? Frightening him for simply walking through the trees.’
‘He isn’t welcome here and neither are you.’
‘Am I trespassing too?’ she asked. ‘I thought the woods allowed public access.’
‘I don’t like people wandering around. The farm is a dangerous place and too many people wandering about can upset the animals,’ he replied.
‘It’s a pleasant place to sit and daydream,’ she said, hoping to ease him out of his aggression.
‘Better on your own property I think, don’t you?’ He took a step towards her, ushering her towards the edge of the trees.
She rose and without another word walked away, aware of him watching her until she went through the gated fence out on to the field. Below her was the three-cornered cottage that had so recently been her home. If she went this way she had a long walk to get home. Perhaps, if she sat a while, he might leave and allow her to slip back through the wood the way she had come.
As she studied the cottage below her, with its damaged roof and sad, forlorn air, she saw the movement of a ragged curtain and realized there was someone inside. She squeezed her eyes almost closed to try to see if there was a vehicle of some kind in the lane, and spotted, almost hidden by the newly clothed hedgerow, an open-topped van. Although she couldn’t see anyone, she waved her arms.
Footsteps and a rustling of leaves behind her. Owen was not going to leave until she did, so, taking a chance on seeing someone more friendly, she walked down the steep field towards the cottage. The door opened and a man stepped out.
‘Hello, Ryan, are you repairing the place after all?’
‘How d’you know I’m Ryan and not Gareth?’ he asked curiously. ‘Very few people can tell.’
‘A difference about the eyes. Gareth’s eyes are restless. A more relaxed jaw. Little enough, but you are two separate personalities, aren’t you? Identical doesn’t mean everything about you is the same. I don’t know either of you well, but I think you are happier, more content than your brother. And both of you are far happier than Owen!’
‘Would you like a lift back or are you out for a walk?’ he asked, obviously pleased with her comments.
‘I was out for a walk, intending to sit and think about what I’m to do with my life, but your cousin reminded me that once again I was trespassing.’
‘We have to make allowances for Owen. He was hurt and I don’t think he’ll get over it,’ Ryan said. ‘It makes him bad tempered and a bit unreasonable.’
‘Even so there was no need for him to be harsh with a little boy, was there? He sent Bertie running off with threats of police and prison, would you believe?’
‘Sarah is Owen’s wife, but Bertie is not his son.’
Sophie digested this, surprised at the relationship between the sour Owen and Bertie’s sad mother. ‘Poor little boy. Forever in the wrong through no fault of his own.’ She wanted to ask what he felt about a little boy being brought up with no one to care for him except a young mother who had to work. But she didn’t. Instead, she said, ‘About this trespassing: I need to walk through the fields and gather herbs and wild fruits, and mushrooms and flowers. Is there a way I can get permission, so Owen can’t turn me back when I walk through your father’s fields?’
‘Come and ask him. My father, I mean. Come on Sunday afternoon – it’s the only time they take a few hours off between feeding the animals and milking the cows.’
She hesitated. ‘I’m not happy around farms,’ she admitted.
‘Much of it is arable. In fact, we grew a few acres of flowers before the war brought a ban. We have cows and a few steers and sheep and the pigs of course. But it’s the way of the world and I can’t see it ever changing.’
‘It changed for me, after seeing so many people slaughtered for so-called honour and duty. Too much killing. I can’t take any more.’
‘Then you won’t come?’ He stared at her, his brow creased in a frown. ‘Just because you don’t agree with what we do to earn our living?’
This was another turning point. She could walk away and never see him again or face the fact that his life was raising animals to feed a population of meat-eaters. He would go on doing the same whichever decision she made.
‘Thank you,’ she said, lowering her head a little. ‘I’d love to come.’
Four
When Sophie stepped out of Ryan’s van at the gate of Badgers Brook, a small figure stood watching her. ‘He’s the farmer bloke, isn’t he?’ he asked.
‘Yes, he kindly gave me a lift home.’
‘Have you got any cakes in your house? Starvin’ I am and Mam’s out.’
Ryan had been watching the boy and he reached into his pocket and handed him a shilling. ‘Buy yourself some chips,’ he said.
Bertie grabbed the shilling and thanked him, then turned to Sophie. ‘I’d rather some of your cakes, miss. The shilling will do for tomorrow, I expect she’ll be out again then.’
‘I haven’t seen you for a while. Does that mean you’re going to school regularly?’
‘Mam said you’re tired of me bothering you, miss, so I thought I might as well go.’ Sophie smiled and waved to Ryan. ‘It seems I have a guest for supper.’
‘Don’t forget Sunday,’ he called as he drove away.
In the kitchen, Bertie dragged a chair towards the sink, climbed up and filled the kettle and placed it on the gas ring ready for her to light. ‘I can light the gas, but Mam says I mustn’t. So I only do it when she’s out.’
Which, Sophie suspected, was most of the time. More than the hours Sarah spent at the factory. She lit the ring and watched as he efficiently set out cups and saucers and plates, then climbed up to the shelf where the cake tin lived. The boy was capable and independent – much more so that a child of his age should be.
‘She has to work, see,’ Bertie explained, pulling an understanding face. ‘That’s why she’s out so much.’
They ate the cakes and Bertie enjoyed several rounds of toast made in front of the fire and covered with home-made apple and ginger jelly. She was careful not to ask too many questions; she didn’t want to stop him coming. The only objection his mother had, of her encouraging him to stay away from school, was not valid, and he did appreciate the food she offered. Hungry and lonely were two adjectives that should never apply to childhood, she thought sadly. But in case of criticism she decided to talk to his mother again.
The evening was closing in and it was an excuse to walk him home. This time he didn’t object, or pretend the ownership of a new bike, but put on his school coat as she prepared to leave. In the hedge outside he struggled with something, which turned out to be his school satchel.
‘Oh, Bertie, what a pity you didn’t show me. Have you any of your work in there?’
&nbs
p; ‘Only a pattern I painted. Miss Green was going to put it on the wall, but I took it down.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
‘Mam wouldn’t see it there, would she?’ he said, as though it were obvious. Sadness overwhelmed her and caused tears to seep into her eyes. He was probably the only one who didn’t have a parent visiting the school’s exhibition of work.
‘Please, Bertie, can I see it? Or would you like your mother to see it first?’
‘Mam first, miss,’ he replied.
His mother was in and a light shone through the open curtains of the room she rented in Loxton Street. With some hesitation Sophie was invited in.
The room was small and over full. It was as though the move had been accomplished but nothing had been done to make the place into a comfortable home. Although, Sophie conceded, with two people in such a small space, that would have been difficult to achieve even with the best of effort.
Sarah herself looked defeated by life, her expression and the droop of her shoulders showing she had given up trying. Her hair was straggly and in need of washing and a decent cut, her face was shadowed by depression and her voice was low and without energy as she said mournfully, ‘Sorry I can’t offer tea, but the ration’s gone till Friday.’
Sophie didn’t know how to reply: with sympathy? Indifference? Or with an attempt to reassure? Bertie answered for her. ‘Its all right, Mam, miss gave me tea. Toast and homemade jam and cakes. Smashing.’
‘Miss?’ Sarah queried. ‘Are you a teacher then?’
‘No. I might have been but for the war. I gave up before I qualified, and joined the WAAFs.’
A New Beginning Page 7
