‘It’s nothing,’ she mumbled.
‘Is it time of the month again?’
‘NO.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Nothing. Just leave me alone, Kate. And I am not going dancing with you.’
Kate took her sister’s arm determinedly. ‘Would you like to come and see the horses with me?’ she asked. ‘You’d love Little Foxy, she’s so friendly. Ian might invite you to ride.’
Ethie looked tempted. ‘Oh, all right, if you insist,’ she sighed.
The walk back to Asan Farm took the girls along the towpath between the railway line and the canal, then past the Tillerman’s Racing Stables where Kate worked every morning. She did everything from mucking out stables, cleaning tack, grooming and feeding the beautiful horses. It was hard work, but the highlight of the morning was going out on Little Foxy for the gallop. Ian Tillerman always wanted her alongside him, the stable boys behind them on the other four horses. Kate had made friends with everyone, quickly laughing away the initial smirks, joking and teasing as they worked. She enjoyed it and liked having money to spend.
She took Ethie to see Little Foxy. The mare arched her sleek neck over the stable door, her ears pricked and eyes shining as she greeted the two girls.
‘She’s lovely,’ said Ethie, reaching up to stroke her along the crest of her mane. ‘I’ll bet she’s a lovely ride.’
‘She’s wonderful. Light as air,’ said Kate. ‘But she is a bit nervous. She’s petrified of tractors and motorcars, and motorbikes. We have to be careful she doesn’t meet any on that narrow road.’
The two girls stood petting the beautiful horse, and Ian Tillerman soon appeared, carrying a saddle on his hip, his brow furrowed.
‘Oh, it’s KATE.’ His frown changed to a smile of recognition. ‘I didn’t recognise you with . . . with . . .’
‘The new hairdo!’ Kate beamed coquettishly and patted her newly bobbed hair. Ian reached out a suntanned hand and moved a curl gently away from her cheek.
‘Hmm. I quite like it. Very trendy – and cheeky too,’ he appraised, then he glanced at Ethie and frowned again.
‘My sister, Ethie,’ said Kate.
‘How do you do.’ Ethie shook hands stiffly, trying not to stare at the leathery hunk of a man. Ian Tillerman was her ideal image of the kind of man she wanted. Broad tweedy shoulders, long confident legs, white teeth and dark, attentive eyes. But as usual his eyes looked her over quickly, distastefully she thought, and turned back to gaze raptly at Kate.
‘We want to go dancing,’ Kate was saying brightly. ‘So we had our hair bobbed. It’s liberating!’
‘I’ll take you dancing,’ said Ian. ‘I’ll pick you both up at seven tonight, and take you home afterwards.’
‘Oooh. Yes, we’d love that. Wouldn’t we, Ethie?’
Ethie scowled down at her neat navy shoes.
‘No thanks,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’ve got to be up early to collect the salmon from the putts.’
She didn’t look at Ian Tillerman again. Sensing the look of relief on his face was enough, she didn’t want to see it any more than she wanted him to see the sudden fury in her eyes. It wasn’t fair. Her plan to hurt Kate by stealing Freddie’s letters was backfiring. Now, she thought, Kate was flirting with the man she wanted, and Ethie could see that Ian Tillerman was already besotted.
It was late October and the trees were aflame with autumn colours, an Indian summer blessed with misty mornings, and afternoons drowsy with the perfume of cider and wood smoke. At sunset, the white tendrils of mist crept low over the Levels, leaving the town of Monterose isolated like an island of rosy light, the church clock glinting, the bakery windows golden.
A beam of sun flared through the garden gate into the yard, lighting the delicate face of the stone angel. It glistened with moisture from the final wash-down Freddie had given it. Now he walked round it, looking at it from every angle, his mind ringing with a blend of excitement and satisfaction.
It was finished. Freddie thought it was the best thing he had ever made. He’d seen the angel waiting inside the block of stone, and his hands had brought her alive. She had Kate’s beautiful face, and Kate’s flowing hair. She had praying hands and outstretched curving wings. He didn’t need to show her to anyone. It was enough to have brought her into being with the combined skill of his artistic soul and his careful hands. Everything else he had done in his life was suddenly meaningless, as if this was his life, his reason for living.
Standing in the twilight with one bright star in the smooth sheen of the western sky, Freddie sensed he was not alone. A circle of radiance hung around the stone angel, like an aurora, gently shifting, settling into shapes that he recognised, faces looking in at him: Granny Barcussy, Levi, his grandfather, and there were others, a crowd of shining faces looking at his angel.
Freddie nodded at them, dried his hands on a cloth, and stooped to pick up his scattered tools and put them in their wooden box.
Annie was asleep in the armchair, her knitting on the floor beside her. Freddie helped himself to a bowl of soup from the pot, cut a hunk of cheddar and broke a crusty end from the loaf on the table. He ate his supper, staring out at the silhouette of the angel in the garden, until it was too dark to see her. Then he closed the heavy curtains, locked the door and sat looking at his mother’s sleeping face, thinking it had brought him down to earth with an uncomfortable thud. She was so tired lately that he had to wake her up to send her to bed. It wasn’t the work in the bakery that tired her, it was her nerves. Something had to be done.
In the lonely weeks since Kate’s departure he’d focused on the stone carving, and it had lifted him into a different dimension, and while he worked on the angel he was thinking about the other blocks of stone he had accumulated. He knew exactly what he was going to carve from each one, the images catalogued in his mind. Owls, squirrels, foxes, eagles, dolphins, he wanted to try them all, and right at the end of his list he planned to buy a substantial block of Bath stone and have a go at a lion.
Finishing the angel was like coming to the end of an epic novel which had taken weeks to read. Without it, there was an awkward space in his mind, and the complications of his life came diving and swooping like returning swallows. He picked up Kate’s last letter and read it, frowning. It was shorter than usual, and she hadn’t said anything about his planned visit, which seemed strange. He’d written about the stone angel, and she hadn’t mentioned that either. It wasn’t like Kate. He was concerned about the job she had started. Riding racehorses seemed dangerous for a beautiful young woman like Kate. And Freddie didn’t like the sound of Ian Tillerman one bit. A toff, that’s what Ian Tillerman was, he decided.
But first something had to be done about his mother. Freddie sat thinking in the candlelight, and one person kept popping up in his mind. She’d always taken an interest in him, encouraged him with whatever he was doing, and, he thought suddenly, her husband was a doctor! Freddie put on his coat and cap, and stepped out into the moonlit street. With long, decisive strides he headed up the hill to the Old Coach House with the new electric lights shining from its windows. He opened the wrought iron gate, took a deep breath, and knocked on Joan Jarvis’s door.
Chapter Seventeen
THE ROAD TO LYNESEND
Freddie pushed the heavy motorbike onto the waiting ferry boat, his stomach tight with nerves as he eyed the foaming clay-brown river water slopping at the edges of the ramp. He parked the bike and went to stand at the front of the broad boat which rocked and creaked on the tide.
‘Last trip today,’ shouted the ferryman. ‘There’s rough weather coming in.’