They sat on a seat outside the Ship and Compass and ate their meal. As they were finishing, folding the paper and looking around for a rubbish bin, a huge brewer’s delivery lorry arrived and parked nearby. A man got down and knocked on the door, opened it and called, ‘Betty? Ed? I’m parked awkward, can you get a move on?’ While the delivery man began to unload the crates and boxes and roll barrels expertly towards the cellar doors, the three cyclists heard angry voices from inside.
‘Ed, what’s the matter with you? You can’t leave me to deal with a delivery!’
‘I promised and I won’t let her down. She’s got summer visitors arriving and she wants me there to deal with the luggage.’
‘This is ridiculous! You’re responsible for dealing with the deliveries. There is no one else. The woman can wait half an hour, can’t she?’
‘No! “The woman” can’t!’
The three cyclists looked at each other, suppressing smiles as Ed walked out of the door, and, without acknowledging the delivery man’s greeting, walked jauntily off down the road. Betty came to the door and called, ‘Sorry, but you’ll have to just leave it out there. One of my regulars will help me later – I hope.’
‘Come on, girls, let’s see how strong we are.’ The tall girl, who appeared to be in charge, waved to Betty and called, ‘Don’t worry, landlady. WAAF-trained we are, and we’ll help with this. Go and open up the cellar for the barrels and we’ll carry in the rest, won’t we, girls?’
Without waiting for Betty to agree, the tall girl began organizing the delivery. Within less than half an hour the barrels were safely in the cellar and the rest of the crates and boxes were placed where a bemused and grateful Betty directed. When she offered tea and cakes, the tall girl shook her head. ‘A shandy and a sandwich would be better, we’re still hungry after our fish and chips.’ She offered a rather grubby hand. ‘I’m Daphne Boyd and these are Gloria and Frieda.’
It was as they were eating the sandwiches that Daphne mentioned Sophie. She didn’t hold out much hope, having passed that way earlier in the year, but explained her quest to find her friend.
‘We have a newcomer to the village who served in the WAAFs’ she told them, ‘Sophie – er – something, her name is. She’s moved around a lot, living like a tramp sometimes, I understand, but she seems to have settled in Cwm Derw.’
‘Not Sophie Daniels?’ Daphne gasped. And when Betty agreed that was correct, she said, ‘I’ve been searching for her for four years. I’d given up hope of finding her. Close friends we once were, but after demob she just disappeared. I’ve no idea why, so I’d better be careful how I approach her, eh?’ With great excitement she wrote down the address and hoped the name wasn’t just a coincidence. The quiet girl Betty described certainly didn’t sound like the Sophie she had known.
*
Sophie received very few letters. There was no one in her past who knew where she was living, no one who would bother to write if they had known. So it was with curiosity that she stared at the hand-written envelope that had been pushed through the letter box. She picked it up and studied it, trying to identify the writing, but the rather flamboyant style mystified her. Large, bold and with letters generously flourished with loops and fancy tails. She opened it, took out the good-quality paper and gasped with surprise. Daphne Boyd! How on earth had she managed to find her?
To get this unexpected reminder of her past was exciting but also alarming. She had thought she was safe from anyone she had known finding her. Again there was the almost overwhelming impulse to run away and find somewhere else to hide.
To meet, as Daphne suggested in her note, would mean talking about all that had happened, and that was never going to be easy, however long she delayed. Daphne would be a difficult person to discourage from asking questions. She wasn’t the type to take a hint! Perhaps this was another example of how life was pushing her along, forcing her to take strides towards the day she finally opened up and faced the trauma. She sat down and replied straight away, and posted the letter on the way to school before she could change her mind and throw Daphne’s letter on to the fire.
They had been such close friends before duties had separated them. Daphne would have been her bridesmaid if her wedding had gone ahead. She must have wondered why she hadn’t kept in touch.
A second letter came from Daphne explaining how she had found Sophie, and asking if she might visit her. A week later they met, Daphne – to Sophie’s alarm – arriving with a small suitcase and a request to stay for a few days. ‘While I cool off,’ she said in her loud, confident voice. ‘If I don’t get away from home soon, I’ll go crazy.’
Everything about Daphne was large. She was almost six feet tall and was no beanpole. She did everything at breakneck speed and spoke loudly without worrying about anyone hearing her, even when she was criticizing someone for being in her way, or being slow doing whatever she had asked. Shop assistants, bus passengers, pedestrians on the crowded pavements – she bustled them along, but in a good-natured way that had them smiling rather than taking offence.
After a brief stay to drink tea and eat a sandwich, she wanted to explore. Striding along, with Sophie giving an occasional hop to keep up, they went to the main road to inspect the shops and cafe. ‘To the post office first,’ Daphne said, pushing people aside as she entered the small, crowded shop. ‘Keep my place in the queue while I choose a card to send to Mam and Dad.’ Ignoring the curious and amused glances, she kept up a running commentary on the card before selecting one of the park. ‘You’ll have to take me there, Sophie. I must see the place before I send this or it’ll be a cheat,’ she announced.
‘Where d’you find this one?’ Stella asked with a sideways nod towards Daphne, as Sophie reached the counter and bought a couple of stamps.
‘A friend from long ago,’ Sophie replied. ‘Daphne Boyd, meet Stella Jones.’
‘Bring her to have tea in my country cottage,’ Stella invited. ‘You know how to find it. I’ll be there on Wednesday.’
They walked around, stopping occasionally when Sophie met someone she knew and Daphne insisted on being introduced, then Sophie suggested tea in the café. Daphne pointed to the Ship and Compass. ‘Pity the pub isn’t open, I could do with something stronger than tea, couldn’t you?’
‘I have some elderflower champagne at home,’ Sophie offered.
‘Sounds good to me.’
After they had eaten, and Sophie planned to settle down to read or listen to the wireless, Daphne jumped up, dealt efficiently with the dishes and announced that they would go for a stroll, which meant something different from Sophie’s idea of wandering through the wood. Daphne walked briskly along the lanes and roads, asking questions, getting her bearings, working out a different way home from the one Sophie suggested and getting it right.
At her suggestion they explored the allotments to find Stella and Colin’s country cottage. Daphne discovered it to be a very well-kept and elaborately painted garden shed. Through the shiny windows they saw it was furnished and had a paraffin stove and a kettle. ‘All ready for making tea.’ Daphne laughed her rather loud laugh and said, ‘I can’t wait for Wednesday.’
By bed time Sophie was exhausted. Being alone for most of the time, visitors tired her – the conversation, the feeling of being on duty and not being free to relax and do what she wanted was even harder with the energetic Daphne. Had they really been such friends? If so, which of them had changed? Had she really shared the enthusiasm of this strong character? She must have, so it was she who had changed, the four years alone had taken away her spirit, left her weary and empty. Perhaps a short visit from Daphne was exactly what she needed. If she survived it!
Five
Gareth came off the phone to find his mother standing near, staring at him with disapproval on her face.
‘Brian Powell again?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Mam, and you might as well know, we are considering buying a place together. He and his wife are selling their house and I wil
l contribute by getting a loan, and I’ve found a job to pay it back. Right?’
‘I can’t understand why you have to leave here. For heaven’s sake grow up, stop this nonsense about travelling and moving away and take up your responsibilities here. There’s everything you want right here. How can you walk away from what we’ve built up? We’ve done it for you and Ryan and you can’t let us down like this.’
Gareth stood while she became more and more angry, her voice rising, her eyes filled with frustration. When she paused he said simply, ‘Mam, it’s all arranged. You must advertise for some help. Whatever you say, I’m leaving.’
The door opened and Tommy walked in with Owen behind him.
‘What’s going on? he demanded.
‘It’s me, Dad. I’ve just told Mam that I’m going into partnership with Brian Powell and his wife. And before you start, it’s all arranged and you won’t change my mind.’
Without turning around Tommy said gruffly, ‘Go away, Owen. This is family business.’
Owen left and closed the door, but he didn’t go far; he stood listening as the three of them ranted, all shouting at once, each insisting they would be heard, their voices getting out of control. When he heard footsteps coming towards the door he darted around the corner of the house and hid in one of the barns. He was smiling. This disagreement and Gareth’s determination to leave was heaven sent. It would take Rachel and Tommy’s mind away from what he was doing.
Later that day, he transferred a small amount of money into the new account he had opened in the name of George Treweather, George being his middle name.
*
Bertie walked through the lane and entered the wood, wandering aimlessly, killing time, knowing his mother wouldn’t be home for at least another hour. He climbed to the top of an oak tree, imagining himself on a ship in a stormy sea, then slid to the ground, unaware of losing a button from his coat. The sound of a pigeon flapping its way through the branches startled him, then he used the sound to pretend he was being chased by a dragon. He ran across the ivy-covered ground and squeezed himself into the hollowed-out trunk of an ancient ash, pretending to fight off an enemy with a stick. After a moment or two he stayed still, as the spurious excitement faded. Games weren’t much fun without companions and his friends were all home eating their tea and chatting to their families. When it was time to get out, he found he couldn’t move. He was stuck.
He struggled for a while, then began calling, shouting, then sobbing as no one came. He lost all sense of time but he was dreadfully hungry and thought he would be dead before morning. Intermittently shouting then quietly sobbing, he was silent when he heard the sound of someone coming. At once he began shouting again and a man appeared, a dog at his side, a gun broken over his arm.
‘Hush,’ he said, ‘you’re frightening the pigeons away.’ But he didn’t sound angry.
‘I’m stuck,’ Bertie said, trying not to sob.
‘Take off your coat, that will help,’ the man said. Carefully and with infinite patience the man helped him to free himself – a leg, an arm and gradually the rest of him popped out – then he asked the boy where he lived.
‘With my mam,’ Bertie replied.
‘All right, who is your mam?’
‘Sarah Grange. She’ll be home by now so I’d better run.’
He turned and ran off, dragging his sorry-looking coat behind him, his feet slipping in the too-large shoes. Tommy Treweather watched him thoughtfully until he was out of sight.
Sarah’s son, so dirty and unkempt he hadn’t recognized him. What a disgrace Sarah had turned out to be. Ruining her marriage and not even caring for the innocent reason for it. Such a shame Owen was so pig-headed. The boy couldn’t have much of a life living with his mother; the last he’d heard they were living in one room. If Owen had been more forgiving the boy could have had the freedom of all the space he needed and a family, the feeling of belonging at Treweathers’ farm. And the farm was in need of young blood – even if it wasn’t Treweather blood.
Perhaps he ought to have a word with Sarah. If they happened to bump into each other. He needn’t tell Owen, just a quiet word with Sarah when an opportunity offered, to see if she needed help.
Poor little boy. He hadn’t thought of him overmuch lately, and if he thought of him at all it was to imagine him as the baby who’d been born by mistake and ruined lives. Now, seeing the unkempt child wandering with no one who cared enough to worry about where he was and if he was safe, he felt a creeping shame.
An hour later he decided not to wait any longer in the hope of accidentally meeting Sarah, but to go and find her. More guilt, as he realized he didn’t even know where they lived. He’d simply followed Owen’s lead and put Sarah and her child out of his mind. He went to Stella Jones at the post office; she’d know where they lived. Everyone used the post office for one thing or another.
The house, when he found it, was a disappointment. It looked shabby, with ill-fitting curtains and unwashed windows. The garden was filled with clutter: abandoned and broken toys, a bicycle red with rust and missing a wheel, paper strewn on bushes where wind and rain had reduced it to pulp, even a few clothes piled up and forgotten, covered with leaves and rotting away. There was no reply to his knocking and he went away, frowning and wondering what he should do about it.
Bertie had been hiding, convinced the man had come to complain to his mother about his being in the woods. He didn’t come out until the van had driven away.
Tommy went next to the school, in case Bertie was hiding his absences by pretending to come out of school at the right time. He smiled as he remembered Gareth doing just that when he became obsessed with fishing. The school was closed and there was no one hanging around the gates.
He knew Sophie had befriended the boy and went to Badgers Brook, but again there was no one in. Anxious now, he went back to make sure the boy hadn’t returned home, then drove back into town and stopped a young woman walking with two small children.
‘Try the café,’ she suggested. ‘That’s where you’ll find her for sure.’ He remembered then having seen her there on more than one occasion.
He spotted her in a corner, with teas and cakes on the table in front of her, talking to friends, factory girls by the look of them, turbans on their heads, overalls visible beneath their coats.
Anger towards her and sympathy for a neglected little boy boiled over. He pushed through the door and put both huge, brawny hands on the table beside her. ‘At last! Looking for you, I’ve been.’
She tried to stand up, startled at his sudden appearance and the fury of his expression. ‘I’ve just found your son, in the woods, stuck and in danger, while you’re here idling time that should be spent with him!’ He didn’t lower his voice, but leaned lower on the table she was sharing and spoke loudly, his anger increasing. ‘Get home and look after the boy. It isn’t his fault you made a mess of your life!’ Unaware of the faces turned to stare, furious at the woman’s stupidity and thoughtlessness, he stormed out and drove off in the mud-spattered farm van.
Without another word, Sarah ran out of the café and headed for home. Tommy Treweather was right: she was neglecting her son. He was the only person who needed her in the whole world and she was treating him with complete disregard.
He wasn’t there. Deeply frightened, she walked around, calling his name, searching in wider and wider circles, sobs threatening. She found him at Badgers Brook, where Sophie and Daphne had washed him and were mending his coat and feeding him with beans on toast.
‘Come on, Bertie, thank these kind ladies for looking after you, but I’m here now and I’ll take care you.’ He muttered a polite ‘thank you’, and followed his mother out.
‘Perhaps this time she means it,’ Sophie whispered to Daphne, without conviction.
*
At school over the next few days Bertie avoided her, and Sophie knew that it was from embarrassment at his mother’s behaviour. She spoke to him but didn’t encourage conversation; h
e’d come to her when he was ready. He spent playtimes and dinner hours sitting on the wall near the gate and looking along the road. She knew he was keeping out of the way of the boys who tormented him, and wondered what he was thinking, guessing he was wishing that a previously unknown uncle or a grandad, or even a dad, might miraculously appear, to love him and make life better.
Walking through the curious mothers who waited at the gate after school was still a dread for Sophie, with the fear that they would attempt to begin a conversation and ask the inevitable questions. Her heart raced as she pushed her way through them with her head down. Sometimes, when she couldn’t face them, she would wait, talking to the cleaners, until they were gone.
Today she looked out and to her relief saw Daphne waiting for her to go to Stella and Colin’s country cottage. She was grateful for the excuse to ignore the other women. She ran through, apologizing but not stopping, as though dashing through a field of dangerous animals. She was breathless when she reached Daphne and hurried her away from the gates and the curious glances.
As they walked, Bertie passed by, and she asked, ‘We’re going to see Mr Jones’s allotment, want to come? I know they’d love to see you.’
He shook his head and ran off.
The shed was open when they arrived at the field, and Stella and Colin were sitting outside on folding chairs, sipping tea. Beside them on a neatly set small table were plates filled with biscuits and a few small cakes and some sandwiches.
‘Oh, good, you’ve come,’ Stella called out when she saw them. Within moments she had poured teas and provided plates and instructed them to ‘Help yourself, there’s always plenty.’
They discussed Colin’s neat plot and, having some experience from her father’s garden and from living in Badgers Brook, Sophie made the right comments and Daphne asked all the right questions. They also admired the ‘cottage’, Daphne flattering the woman, complimentary about her imaginative efforts. Sophie was impressed at the way Daphne coped with strangers. She was talking to Colin like an old friend and even offered to come and help when he was doing his autumn digging. ’So you can teach me the proper way to turn the soil,’ she added.
A New Beginning Page 10
