The Boy with No Boots

by Sheila Jeffries

  So the last person she wanted to see was Joan with her nauseating fox fur dangling, her scarlet nails and her intimidating confidence.

  ‘Yes. What would you like?’ Annie asked, her eyes suspicious.

  ‘I don’t want any bread. I came to see the stone angel.’ Joan smiled disarmingly right into Annie’s defences.

  ‘Wait a minute. I’ll close the shop.’ Annie locked the door and turned the sign to CLOSED. She led Joan through the scullery and into the garden.

  ‘Oh, my dear! Look at your chrysanthemums.’ Joan stopped by the flowerbed along the sunny wall. ‘Aren’t they beautiful? You must have green fingers.’

  Annie thawed a little. ‘People say I have.’

  When Joan saw the stone angel she gasped and flung her arms in the air, her painted mouth opened wide showing two yellowy front teeth crossed over each other.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said in a whisper, her eyes turning to look at Annie. ‘Freddie did this?’

  Annie smiled, puffed up with pride.

  ‘Ah. He did. And he’s never had no training. ’Tis just a gift.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ Joan sidled round the stone angel, looking at it from all angles. ‘Isn’t she beautiful? Perfect, just perfect. And the patience! Freddie is a remarkable young man. You must be so proud, Annie – may I call you Annie?’

  ‘Yes, of course. And yes, I am proud of Freddie.’ Annie’s eyes glistened. Hesitantly she glanced into Joan’s eyes and found them unexpectedly warm and friendly.

  ‘But isn’t this exciting?’ Joan placed a manicured hand on the stone angel’s head. ‘And the face! It’s exquisite. Did he have a model for it?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’ Annie didn’t want to tell Joan about Kate Loxley.

  Joan pursed her lips and stood gazing raptly at the stone angel as if it was a newborn baby. Annie watched her, suddenly aware of the bright aura of light that surrounded Joan. Seeing it brought Annie’s own gift, long suppressed, to life, like a treasure discovered in an attic. She allowed it for a few guilty moments, then rearranged herself, smoothing her apron and twisting her wedding ring round and round her finger.

  ‘Has anyone seen the angel yet?’ Joan asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Annie, if you don’t mind. I’m going to tell the vicar. He ought to see it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Could do.’

  ‘Annie, he’s looking for someone to do a statue of St Peter for the church porch. The church has some money set aside for it.’ Joan’s words jingled with such enthusiasm that Annie could hardly follow.

  ‘And – is Freddie going to do more carvings? He’s got all this stone.’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s got plenty of ideas.’

  ‘Then I shall give him a commission.’

  Annie looked bewildered. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A job. A stone carving job. I want two majestic eagles on our gateposts. My husband would love them. We’ll pay him of course. Is Freddie here?’

  ‘No. He’s gone off today on his motorbike. I hate the thing.’

  Joan hardly seemed to hear her. ‘I’m going to see the vicar right now,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. She slid her hands into a pair of fox fur gloves, and smiled caringly at Annie. ‘It’s only down the road. Why don’t you come with me?’

  A suffocating silence crept over Annie. Instead of looking at Joan’s bright encouraging eyes, she looked down at the floor, her eyes clouded with shame.

  ‘I—’ She was going to say ‘can’t’ but the word froze in her throat. A person with Joan’s energy and fire was not going to accept ‘can’t’, that was obvious to Annie, so she said, ‘I won’t, not just now.’

  Joan cocked her head sympathetically as if she sensed a problem. Annie could see the question hovering and she braced herself, but Joan just gave her a little pat on the shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps another day,’ she said. ‘But I’ll go anyway. Thank you, Annie, for showing me Freddie’s work – and your lovely flowers. I’ll come and see you tomorrow. Bye now.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Annie showed her out, and watched her skittering down the road towards the vicarage.

  ‘She knows,’ Annie thought desperately. ‘She knows.’

  Ian Tillerman looked down from the lofty height of his dappled grey racehorse at the mud-spattered stranger on his motorbike.

  ‘Turn the engine off, will you please?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you know horses are frightened of motorbikes?’

  Ian Tillerman’s horse didn’t look bothered by the motorbike, but the other horse, a bay, had wheeled around and bolted back down the road, its rider clinging on, its hooves clattering on the stony surface.

  Freddie sighed and begrudgingly turned off the engine. Plastered in mud, he sat back astride the bike and tried to bend his frozen fingers. He realised he must have looked a sight in the black balaclava and goggles stuck to his face with mud. He eyed Ian Tillerman through the mud-splashed lenses and waited silently.

  ‘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 damned 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. God 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 bloody 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 hell 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 fiancée,’ said Ian Tillerman pushing his chest out arrogantly. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours. And if anything happens to my Kate – you – you and your noisy bloody 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 canal. 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 canal water steaming, he saw leaves and clods of mud storming t
hrough 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 grass with his hands, then laid his cheek on the cold mud and plummeted down, down into an echoing coma.

  Nobody 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 canal 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, wishing 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 assumption 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.

  ‘Damned infernal motorbikes,’ he stormed, ‘and you should have seen the state of him. Covered in mud and stinking of brandy. Bloody arrogant lout. I sent him packing. I told him he’d got no business down here. Bloody 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, bloody 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 coke 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 shores 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 swooshing 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 brushing 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 shell she had inhabited over the years. At first she could on
ly rock to and fro and say, ‘’Tis terrible – terrible. Nobody 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. God 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 assured 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.’