‘No.’ Annie smiled and her soft eyes twinkled. ‘I want to dance!’
She put some flowers on Levi’s grave, and then the two women spent a happy hour inside the church arranging the tall spikes of larkspur, lilies and marigolds from Annie’s garden. Joan had brought a bunch of antirrhinums and some foliage.
‘That looks beautiful, doesn’t it?’ she enthused when they had finished. ‘You’ve done that pedestal very cleverly, Annie, I’d never have thought of doing it like that.’
‘I wanted to be a florist,’ Annie said, gathering up the stray leaves and stems from the floor. ‘I enjoyed doing that.’
Joan gave one of her shrieks, ‘Look at the clock! I can’t believe it’s ten past three. I promised to drive Susan to an interview for a job. I’ll have to dash. You go home on your own, Annie. You can do it. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She ran down the church path, leaving Annie standing at the door, a look of horror on her face. Joan had abandoned her. Or was it deliberate? She’d never trusted that Joan Jarvis in the first place. Annie sat down on the porch, hoping the vicar wouldn’t turn up and find her there, hoping Freddie might come past in his lorry and see her. Then she remembered he wouldn’t be home until late. She couldn’t sit there for hours.
Trembling with anger and nervousness, Annie took her basket and Levi’s stick and set off down the path, counting her steps and chanting the mantra in her mind.
But when she went through the gate into the street, her throat closed up, her heart raced like galloping hoof-beats, and the whole street rocked and swayed, the buildings toppling, the pavement gyrating around her.
Annie was terrified.
‘I’m going to die, here on the street,’ she thought. But Joan’s words rang in her head. ‘The only way out is through it.’
‘Are you all right, Mrs Barcussy?’
Annie looked up and saw the vicar looking down at her like an inquisitive heron. She stood up straight and puffed herself up proudly. ‘I’m very well, thank you. Just on my way home. Good afternoon.’ And she walked on, her head held high. One, two, three, breathe in. Four, five, six, breathe out.
She arrived home in a state of utter exhaustion and despair. She collapsed into the old rocking chair where she rocked and cried and rocked and cried until she fell into a deep sleep with one thought blazing in her mind.
‘I’m never, EVER going out again.’
Chapter Twenty-One
TRUSTING THE DREAM
On 19 June 1930 Freddie was standing in the church porch helping to set up his statue of St Peter. With the twenty pounds stashed in his wallet, he felt satisfied as he viewed the statue from all angles, turning it to catch the light. A beam of sunlight was filtering through the tall pines and poplars that grew along the wall of the churchyard.
‘Like that?’ he said to the vicar who was earnestly inspecting the statue. ‘It needs a bit of sunlight.’
‘Yes, yes. You’re right,’ the vicar agreed. Then he looked at Freddie the same way as he’d looked at the statue. ‘You really are a very talented young man. You’ve carved the face so beautifully – and the bunch of keys – that can’t have been easy – in stone.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘Those are the keys to the kingdom. Did you know that?’
‘Yes. Through gates of pearl,’ quoted Freddie, thinking about Levi standing by the archway in the wall. Through that archway he’d seen a golden web of light. He wanted to tell the vicar, but he felt ill at ease with him, so he asked him a question instead. ‘Do you believe in life after death?’
‘Of course I do. Jesus came to teach us that.’
Freddie frowned. ‘Then why is it wrong to talk about it?’
‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘Well – I’ll give you an example. You knew my father, didn’t you? You did his funeral. So do you believe he’s still alive?’
‘He’s with God.’
‘But do you believe that my father is alive?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘So why is it wrong for me to tell you if I see him?’
‘Do you see him?’ The vicar’s eyes hardened and he looked intently at Freddie.
‘I’m not saying I do. I said IF I see him, why is that wrong?’ persisted Freddie.
The vicar looked flummoxed.
‘I’ve known you a long time, Freddie,’ he said, ‘ever since you were a rebellious young boy at your father’s funeral. You’re obviously a deep thinker aren’t you?’
‘You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘Do you need an answer?’
Freddie didn’t want to fall out with the ‘Holy man’ who had just paid him twenty pounds and a lot of compliments. So he said pleasantly, ‘Not today. We’ll talk another time. I’ve gotta be on my way now.’
The vicar looked relieved. He disappeared into the church and Freddie strode down the path thinking about his next haulage job: collecting sacks of grain from a farm and delivering them to the mill. The stationmaster had caught him yesterday as he was driving out of the yard. ‘Two parcels arriving for you on the mid-morning train, Freddie. Can you be here?’
‘What are they?’ he’d asked.
‘I don’t know – but they’re from Lynesend. I would guess a truckle of cheese – or a salmon maybe?’ Charlie had winked at Freddie and rubbed his hands together. ‘Something that nice young lady has sent you, I would guess.’
It was mid-morning now, but he wanted to fetch the grain first. The parcels would wait, he thought, pausing at the gate of the church to listen to an unfamiliar bird-song, a plaintive warbling melody coming from somewhere in the churchyard. Intrigued, he searched the trees and a flash of gold caught his eye, in the rippling foliage of the black poplars. He stood motionless, watching, and the bright yellow bird flew down and perched on the wall right in front of him.
Freddie held his breath. A golden oriole. There in Monterose on the church wall. A rare sight, a rare visitor.
And then he remembered. Those words! Words given to him in the night, a long, long time ago.
‘When the golden bird returns, you will meet her again.’
From far away in the cutting through the hills came the shrill whistle of a train. The mid-morning train from Gloucestershire.
Freddie leapt over the church wall and ran down the road to the bakery, started his lorry and drove off, leaving Annie standing open-mouthed in the doorway. Freddie was a grown man now, a six-footer, slow moving and thoughtful. What could have caused him to run, and to rev his precious lorry like that?
Freddie’s heart was racing as he drove down Station Road, and he was cross with himself. Why was he being an idiot? Rushing about like that. Trusting a dream!
The train was already steaming into the platform. Freddie sat in the cab of the lorry, watching the gates, watching the passengers emerging, the young boys scurrying to carry luggage as he had done. He watched and searched for a little dark-haired beauty with the face of an angel. He waited and waited, but she didn’t come. Disappointment settled over him. He’d made a fool of himself.
Now the train was leaving, the passengers walking away up Station Road. Freddie saw Charlie pop his head round the gate and look over at him, with a thumbs-up sign. He sighed. Better go and collect the parcels, whatever they were.
He swung down from the cab and loped across to the entrance.
‘Here you are, Freddie. This is yours.’ Charlie led him up the platform to a trolley where a truckle of cheese sat, wrapped in a cloth. It had a label in Kate’s writing which said, ‘With love to Annie and Freddie, from the Loxley Family at Asan Farm’. It smelled heavenly, he thought, pleased. Annie would be thrilled. He lifted the trolley handle to wheel it out.