Betty Connors stopped the van in which she had been to collect some extra supplies for the Ship and Compass, and uttered a mild expletive. Steam coming from the bonnet meant trouble. She felt a momentary guilt, remembering how her brother Ed had warned her that the water tank needed topping up rather too often and the van needed to go to the garage. Irritation quickly followed. Why hadn’t he dealt with it? She ran the pub with his help and he shouldn’t have left it for her to do.
She sat back in the worn leather seat and wondered why Ed had been less enthusiastic about his work at the Ship and Compass these past weeks. Something was on his mind, and she had a suspicion that it might be Elsie Clements, who ran the bed and breakfast near the post office. Ed had never married and she thought he’d more sense than to consider it at his age, but he did spend a lot of time there, helping Elsie, when he should have been helping her.
The complaints from the overheated metal gradually stopped and she looked at the road ahead. Not far away there was a lane that led to the old cottage and farm buildings where Tommy and Rachel Treweather had lived until their new farmhouse had been built. The cottage, in which old Fred Yates had lived until he retired, might offer help even if it were locked. She seemed to remember it having an outside tap.
Taking a couple of empty flagons from the back of the van, she walked along the quiet lane towards the neglected yard, but stopped before reaching the door. Someone was there and she didn’t think it was one of the Treweathers. No dog, for one thing. Neither Tommy nor the boys would be out without at least one of the dogs. Silently she backed away. Best if she didn’t confront whoever it was before telling Tommy or Rachel, in case it was someone in whom the police were interested.
She turned away and walked towards the village. Luckily, it was a pleasant spring morning and she wasn’t in a hurry. Her brother would open up if she was late getting back. Unless Elsie made him forget the time! What the heck, she couldn’t be in two places at once. She walked slowly, enjoying the brief freedom.
Sophie Daniels walked across the fields from the abandoned farm cottage where she had been living for the past couple of weeks. Her beautiful gold-flecked hazel eyes were filled with sadness, and she walked with her shoulders drooped as though trying to hide. The uniformed, outgoing young woman was lost in memory. She moved slowly, glancing right and then left, then retraced her steps, searching the ground. But what she was seeking eluded her.
She wasn’t tall, and her slim figure, lost in the layers of soft cotton dresses she habitually wore, made her appear waif-like. Her hair flowed around her shoulders, fair, flyaway, framing her pale face in which the dark-hazel eyes were an almost harsh contrast.
She wore a shawl about her shoulders, and another, small and fringed, draped loosely over her head, not to hide her hair or protect her from the chill of the morning, but more as an ornament. From even a short distance she seemed ageless. A dozen guesses would have given a dozen answers. The habit of wearing all those layers had remained with her even though she no longer travelled. She needed the assurance of knowing that if she were moved on she would have most of what was important with her.
After an hour of walking over the field, stopping occasionally to admire the celandines that glowed like golden coins in the morning sun amid their heart-shaped rich green leaves, she gave up her patient search and returned to the cottage. A fire burned in the oven range against one wall, an oven issued tantalizing smells of a vegetable casserole cooking. There was a loaf of bread on the table, which was rickety and dependant on books to keep it level.
The building was small and triangular in shape, having been built against the main farmhouse for one of the workers. In spite of being unoccupied for some time it was still reasonably sound. There were only two rooms up and two down, but behind it was an outbuilding that had once housed a couple of horses.
Besides making the cottage comfortable, Sophie had cleaned the outhouse and whitewashed the walls, and now it had shelves, amateurishly arranged by supporting the ends of wooden planks with old scrubbed and painted bricks. The shelves were filled with jars containing jams and marmalades, chutneys and pickles as well as an assortment of dried foods – tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, herbs and spices. The time of the year limited what she could make, but when summer came she would fill the shelves with fruits and pickles and earn enough to survive the winter.
Tomorrow was market day in Maes Hir. She gathered the items she hoped to sell and put them into willow baskets, which she would carry on her arms. She had lost her purse, so she would have to walk the three miles. At least if she sold her goods she would be able to take the bus home, she thought with a shrug.
Before settling herself to sleep, she stepped outside and looked up at the late-evening sky. Too early for stars – she slept early and wakened with the first light. As she turned to go back inside she saw a movement, and by concentrating her eyes and staring, unmoving, she saw that up at the top of the sloping field, almost hidden in the hedgerow, someone stood watching her. The cottage was in darkness and even the fire had been allowed to die so she slipped cautiously around the door and closed it. Perhaps she hadn’t been seen.
It was a long time before she could relax, listening for the sound of footsteps, afraid of someone banging on the door demanding she left. It had happened before, when a farmer had resented her presence, although never at night. But an hour passed and nothing moved, and she slept.
In the post office of Cwrn Derw, Stella Jones sighed as she looked at the queue. It would be difficult to manage a cup of tea during the next half-hour and she was gasping. It was with relief that she recognized Connie Tanner entering, squeezing into the tiny shop and giving a wave.
‘Connie, love, go into the back room and make a cuppa, will you? Sinking I am, and I’ll soon be nothing more than a pile of bones on the floor if I don’t have a drink soon.’
Connie ignored the complaints as she pushed a path through the customers and worked her way to the door leading to Stella’s living room. It was cluttered and untidy but the tray was set neatly and a tin of biscuits was at hand. At the side of the roaring fire the kettle hummed softly and the teapot had been placed close by to keep warm. Knowing how fussy Stella could be about her famous brew, Connie warmed the pot with hot water and dried it before making the tea. Then she sat and cuddled Scamp, the little terrier, for a minute or two before pouring the teas.
When she went back into the shop Stella was serving the last customer.
‘Phew, Connie, I don’t know what’s got into everyone today! They all came at the same time, and the moaning because they had to wait, you’d never believe. Half-day closing and you’d think they were preparing for a siege!’ She took the cup of tea then groaned as the door opened again. This time it was old Mr Francis, and he held out a red leather purse.
‘I found this,’ he said. ‘You must know whose it is if anyone does, you seeing every purse in the town.’
Stella shook her head and offered it to Connie, who did the same. ‘Sorry, but we don’t recognize it, Mr Francis, but leave it with me, someone will claim it, sure to.’
‘There’s a name inside but not one I know,’ the old man added.
‘The post office is the place, then,’ Stella said. ‘Fount of all knowledge this place is, for sure.’ But she frowned as she read the name inside. ‘Sophie Daniels? That isn’t a name I know.’
‘That’s the crazy woman hiding out in Fred Yates’s old cottage,’ a voice from the door called. ‘Him who used to work for Farmer Treweather.’ A boy of about eight or nine stood half in and half out of the door, feet apart as though preparing to run.
‘Bertie Grange, why aren’t you in school?’ Stella demanded. When the boy ran off, she added, ‘Wild he is, that one. Never where he should be.’
‘His mother doesn’t care. Earns plenty of money in the factory but spends it having fun with her friends. Did you see his shoes? The woman’s a disgrace.’
‘Yes, the poor boy deserves better than Sarah Grange gives him. Look, there she is now.’
A row of women turned and stared as Bertie’s mother walked by with a group of young women. She still wore the overalls she used in the factory and her hair was carelessly pulled back and fixed with a scarf. The disapproving faces swivelled until Sarah was out of sight.
‘Bertie could be right about Fred Yates’s cottage, mind,’ Connie said. ‘People have seen lights there at night, courting couples and poachers mainly, and there are rumours about a woman living there. Someone who keeps to herself. The farmer hasn’t let the place. It needs too much work before he could do that. But a woman is definitely living there, although no one knows who she is.’
Stella looked at the purse, which contained seventeen and sixpence ha’penny. ‘I’d return it myself, but I have to do some work on the allotment this afternoon. I promised Colin I’d sieve a patch of ground for some seeds.’
‘I’ll walk across there this afternoon with Geoff, if you like,’ Connie offered. ‘Half-day closing for us as well as the post office, remember. Geoff and I usually go for a walk after the deliveries.’
Connie and her husband, Geoff Tanner, owned the local hardware store. They had only been married a few weeks, but although Connie had been a newcomer to Cwm Derw, she had settled into the small South Wales town and had become an accepted part of it. They lived in the rooms above the double-sized shop premises on the corner of Steeple Street and, not having a garden, they usually walked through the fields or on the local beaches whenever they were free.
Every Wednesday, after the shop closed at one o’clock, they went out in the van to deliver paraffin and any other goods that had been ordered. Once the round was finished they set off either by van to the nearest beach or on foot through the fields. That day they went by direct route to the lane leading to the farm cottage. The day was clear and mild, with the excitement of spring in the air. Birdsong filled the woods and hedgerows, new growth startled the eye with its bold greenness and everywhere was the promise of wonderful days to come.
When they reached the poor, shabby cottage they knocked but there was no reply, and Geoff tried the door, which opened easily. He called but no one answered.
‘Should we just leave the purse?’ Connie asked, but Geoff shook his head.
‘It’s a pity to waste an opportunity to talk to her, find out a little about her in case she’s in trouble.’ He took a page from his order book and wrote a short note, explaining that the purse had been found, and, if it belonged to her, she would find it either at the post office or Tanner’s hardware store.
Unable to resist giving in to their curiosity, they stood for a while looking into the neat but sparsely furnished room. The fire burned low in the oven range, a red glow almost invisible amid grey wood ash. The curtains across the windows made the room dark and it didn’t seem a very inviting place in which to live. Derelict farm buildings were the only neighbours, empty fields and silent woodland beyond, and beside it the lane, which went no further that the muddy yard.
The fire settled in the grate with a display of sparks, startling them, and they knew it would soon be dead. Wood didn’t last long without coal to bank it up and when the woman returned she would probably have to relight it before she could make herself a hot drink.
The room smelled of fruit and spices, edged with the sharpness of vinegar.
‘She’s been making pickles, or has spilled some,’ Connie whispered.
In the distance they heard singing on the calm, still air. Someone was approaching and at once they darted out of the doorway and closed the door, giggling like guilty children.
Then they turned to greet the person they presumed would be the tenant for whom they were looking.
In the lane, Sophie Daniels stopped singing as she saw a movement near the door of the cottage. She threw down the now empty baskets, and hid behind the thick trunk of an oak.
Geoff had seen her but, not wanting to frighten her, he said loudly, ‘Come on, then, let’s go home, love. She isn’t here. We’ll leave the note and she’ll know where to find us.’ Holding hands, he and Connie walked away, watched by a nervous Sophie.
Allowing time for them to get well away, even following them for a while to make sure they were really leaving, Sophie went back to the cottage and slipped inside. She didn’t pick up the note: it might tell her she had no right to be there, and demand that she leave. She shivered and began to add screwed-up paper and kindling to the still warm ashes of the fire.
Kneeling on the rag mat she slowly added more wood until the blaze lit the room. How she would hate to leave this place. It was the first place that had even remotely felt like a home since her family had died. There had been many other places but this was the only one she could honestly call home. Her thoughts drifted, remembering places she had used as she had wandered without any purpose, begging at times, selling her produce when she settled for long enough to make any, and working occasionally – when she felt able to cope with other people for a time. She earned enough to feed herself, but there wasn’t a lot of money left in the post office – not enough to pay rent unless she touched the bank account and she didn’t want to do that, the money was tainted.
It was much later, after she had gone outside out for a last look at the sky before trying to sleep, that she read the note. It made her sad. They had been so kind, bringing it and trying to find her. But how could she go and collect her purse from strangers? They would ask questions and news would spread and she would be told to leave. Better to lose the few shillings the purse contained than risk that.
A week passed and Geoff and Connie still had the purse. It was the fickle month of April and the weather had become cold, the promise of spring forgotten. There was even a thin covering of snow one morning, and Connie wondered how the lonely woman was coping. She imagined her getting out of bed and coaxing the fire into life before being able to boil water for a cup of tea. She shivered at her sad imaginings.
‘Not worth going to the beach today,’ Geoff said. ‘But we could—’
‘Visit Sophie Daniels again,’ Connie finished for him. They laughed at the confirmation of their togetherness.
This time they took the van, and in the back Geoff placed a couple of half-full sacks of coal, mostly dust and small pieces, which, together with wood, could be used to bank up the fire and keep it alight for a few hours. It began to rain and the rarely used lane was quickly reduced to mud, the ridges previously left by vehicles collapsing and making the wheels sink until Geoff was afraid they might become stuck. He parked on a high area where a cobbled surface was still visible and, while Connie waited at the door, behind which she could hear the woman singing, he carried the sacks and placed them in a sheltered spot and covered them with several empty sacks to keep them dry.
The singing stopped and the door remained firmly closed. They knocked and called softly, assuring her they had only called to return her purse.
‘There’s a mistake, it isn’t mine,’ she replied after a few minutes had passed, her voice high pitched and light.
‘It’s all right, we haven’t come to pry,’ Connie said. She pushed the red purse under the door, where the earthen floor had been worn down by hundreds of feet passing through. ‘Nor to ask questions,’ she added. ‘We’ll help if you need it but won’t call again, unless you invite us.’
The rain was persistent, drumming on the ground and playing a tattoo on the black umbrella Connie held. They moved away and began to walk towards the van. The door scraped harshly against the floor and they stopped and turned. Sophie opened the door wide and invited them in. They were both shocked to see a young and rather beautiful girl, not the frail old woman they had expected.
Somehow the room looked different with her there. The fire sent its cheerful glow on to the walls. Brightly patterned curtains and cushions were spread across the shabby furniture, which had presumably been left by previous tenants. On closer examination, Connie saw that the fabrics were worn and old, and the curtains were ill fitting, obviously intended for other windows, but the effect was of a cosy, comfortable room.
Connie held out the purse. ‘Mr Francis found it and it was Bertie Grange, a young boy who wanders the fields when he should be in school, who told us it might belong to you.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
They turned to go and Geoff said. ‘I hope you don’t mind but we have rather a lot of small coal and we brought it in the hope you might use it. We’ll take it away if you prefer.’
‘We really don’t want to intrude,’ Connie assured her. ‘But you might find it useful for keeping the fire alight while you’re out.’
‘I go to the markets and sell what I make – it’s a long journey but I can only carry a little each time.’ She spoke vaguely, almost as though she wasn’t interested in them, so they were both surprised when she invited them to see her store.
The day was gloomy, and, carrying a torch and wrapped in an oversized mackintosh, she led them behind the cottage to the storeroom that had once been a stable, the hay containers still fixed to the wall. The bright beam of the torch shone around and they saw two well-scrubbed tables, large preserving pans, ladles, wooden spoons of many sizes, empty jars and row upon row of jams and preserves.
Sophie watched them but said nothing, and, feeling ashamed, as though their kindness had been a front for nosiness, Connie and Geoff made their excuses and left.
As they were getting into the van, a small figure appeared and a voice called, ‘It’s called Threeways. Daft name, innit?’
‘What are you doing out here in this weather, Bertie?’ Connie demanded. ‘You’d better get in and we’ll take you home.’
‘The house where the crazy woman lives, it’s called Threeways,’ he repeated.
‘Why do you call her a crazy woman?’
‘Always singing, that’s why.’
‘And that means she’s crazy?’ Connie laughed, and she and Geoff at once began to sing, ‘It ain’t gonna rain no more no more, it ain’t gonna rain no more.’
‘You’re crazy, too,’ was Bertie’s bored response.
They stopped outside the house in which he told them he lived, but when he got out he ran off and disappeared in the gloom of the late afternoon.
‘I wonder where he really lives,’ Geoff mused. ‘He certainly didn’t want us to know, yet it can hardly be a secret. Not in a small town like Cwm Derw.’
‘Some mother he’s got, letting him wander the way he does, and in this weather, too. I think I’ll ask Stella where he lives. She’s bound to know.’
In the shadows, Bertie stared wistfully after the van, wishing he could have gone home with them, just for a while, instead of going to his own home, where his mother would be sleeping, unless she was out with friends. He fingered the sixpence Geoff had slipped into his cold hand and turned towards Gwennie Flint’s. Chips for his solitary supper again.
A hundred miles away, Daphne Boyd was packing clothes and toilet items into two RAF pannier bags, which were fixed to the back of her bicycle. With three friends, she was planning a cycling holiday, staying at youth hostels and heading for South Wales. The choice had not been hers, but she was pleased to agree. However slight, there was a chance of finding Sophie Daniels. She had tried every lead but without success, and the only hope was to travel through the area where her friend had once lived and ask at every town and village they passed.
Before she left, she sat and wrote down everything she could remember Sophie telling her about her old home. Barry Island had been a regular place for summer visits, and Cardiff, with its castle and fine shops. She studied her map and saw with growing dismay just how many villages were contained between those two centres. Packing the map into one of the panniers, she shrugged. At least she’d have a good holiday, and finding Sophie would be a bonus.
Tommy Treweather, the farmer who owned the farmhouse and cottage, knew about their uninvited tenant but decided not to complain. The house was no use to him; in fact, it would be demolished when he got around to it. A builder had told him it was past repair. The cost would be more than the value of it once the work was done. And who would want to live in an isolated cottage propped against a farmhouse at the end of a lane leading nowhere?
From what he had seen by peering through windows, the woman was living on the ground floor, so there was no real danger to her. The ground floor was sound enough. It was just the roof that seriously needed attention, and that, together with the other work needed, made it too expensive to bother.
March and April were very busy months on the farm and he really didn’t want to get involved. He thought he might go and see her or send one of the boys, to explain about the roof in case she went upstairs, but winter was behind them and it was unlikely she would stay much longer. He hadn’t seen her but presumed she was a woman wandering the roads, some lonely old tramp. Always plenty of those about. Perhaps, if she stayed more than a few more weeks, he would report her to the authorities and maybe get her placed in a home for vagrants. He discussed it with his sons, Ryan and Gareth, and they decided that for the meantime, while they were busy with lambing and the many other seasonal jobs on the land, they would ignore her presence.
He stood shielded by the overgrown hedge, his eyes moist as he looked down at the house where he and Rachel had lived and brought up the boys. It looked so derelict it was hard to remember it as it had been then. Gareth and Ryan had persuaded him to build a new farmhouse and move out, but after what they had told him this morning he wished he hadn’t bothered.
He’d been so thrilled when Rachel had given birth to boys, imagining the land being passed on to another generation and perhaps surviving to see grandchildren taking the same interest as he had as a boy. Continuity was his dream, to retire some day soon so he and Rachel could enjoy themselves, be free of the long days and worrying times and watch their sons take over. Instead, a few words, and everything was ruined.
As they had sat down to breakfast after two hours of routine work, like they did every morning of the year, they had told him neither of them wanted to stay. There would only be his nephew, his brother’s son, Owen, which meant he and Rachel would have to continue well into old age – or sell.
It was 1949 but still the war was blamed for everything that was wrong with the country. Perhaps the six years of the conflict were responsible for unsettling Ryan and Gareth. Making the stay-at-home life of a farmer unacceptable. Perhaps if they hadn’t taken the opportunity to leave and see a wider horizon they might have remained. Foolishly the words of a popular song came into his mind: “How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm, now that they’ve seen Paree?” Yet they hadn’t left the country, just moved far enough away from Treweather Farm to glimpse the possibilities of another kind of life.
‘You’re in a reserved occupation, you don’t have to join the army,’ Rachel had pleaded with them.
‘But we do,’ Ryan had insisted.
‘Cowards we’ll be if we stay,’ Gareth had added.
Two years away and never leaving the country, yet it had been enough for them to decide that farming the land owned by their forbears was not what they wanted.
He turned away from the quiet scene with its memories of a time when everything had been certain, and headed back to the new farmhouse, where he had never felt at home.
There was no sign of the boys when he reached the yard. He heard the sound of laughter and turning the corner saw Rachel trying to fasten clothes to the washing line, Owen helping.
‘Where are the boys?’ he asked.
‘Gone into town,’ Rachel replied. ‘They said something about an appointment but they were vague about what it was.’
‘Ryan wants to teach,’ Owen told them. ‘They’ve gone to see about going back to college.’
Without another word, Tommy stomped into the porch and threw off his wellingtons, as if they were to blame for his sons’ disloyalty. Standing at the door he said irritably. ‘You can go and see that old woman living in our cottage and tell her to leave. Right?’
Owen nodded, but didn’t look too pleased.
‘She isn’t doing any harm,’ Rachel whispered. ‘Best do as he says, though. Upset he is, with both Gareth and Ryan telling him they aren’t going to stay.’
‘Don’t worry, Auntie Rachel, they might change their minds, and I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere,’ he assured her. ‘At least you can rely on me.’
On Sundays Geoff Tanner brought his books up to date and then he and Connie were free. This Sunday rain fell unceasingly and the air was chill, so instead of going for a walk and getting soaked they decided to check on the house Geoff owned, Badgers Brook. It had been empty for a while, and although Geoff appeared to be looking for new tenants Connie knew he was not. He was waiting until someone turned up who was in need of it.
Badgers Brook was a strange house, always attracting people in trouble, and giving them a place to stay while they solved their difficulties. She knew that Geoff superstitiously believed that the house found its own occupants, and in this she indulged him, even though she doubted the truth of it.
It was a fact, however, that she had experienced its soothing atmosphere herself, when she had come to Cwm Derw after the break-up of a love affair. It was while she was living there that she had met and married Geoff. She knew how calm, soothing and relaxing the house was, how it seemed to ease away pain and allow time for meditation and healing. She remembered the luxury of sleeping soundly and waking refreshed, with a clear vision of what was needed to solve problems that had once seemed overwhelming. But surely it was to do with who lived there, not the stones of its walls?
They drove down the lane with the woods on their left and, on their right, through trees that were not yet fully in leaf, they saw it. Connie was aware of a lifting of her spirits even though she was far from unhappy. There was something strange, even enchanting, about the place, however hard she tried to deny it.
They went into the house, which still smelled fresh, the windows regularly opened by Kitty Jennings, who lived on the lane. Through the living-room window that overlooked the back garden, they saw someone digging. ‘Bob Jennings,’ Geoff said with a smile. ‘He loves working on this garden. He can’t keep away, even though there isn’t a tenant.’
‘Lucky I brought extra cups,’ Connie replied. While she unpacked the thermos and the food she had brought, Geoff went to see Bob.
‘A bit soggy for digging, isn’t it, Bob?’ Geoff said as the man looked up and waved.
‘A bit of sun will soon dry it. I want to get the onion sets in this week if I can. All right,’ he said with a groan, ‘I know there isn’t anyone living here, but there’s no point in waiting till there is. It’ll be too late for many crops if it isn’t started now. Got anyone in mind?’
Geoff hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No hurry, I’ll find someone soon.’
They worked together for a while, Bob explaining what they needed to buy if they were to keep the gardens in order. He pointed out the rows marked with paper flags, where carrots and salad crops were already in the ground.
‘I really should pay you for all the hours you work, Bob.’
‘No need. I take what Kitty and I need, and I enjoy it. Besides, it would be a pity to let it all go back to how it once was.’
As they drank the tea and ate the cakes Connie had brought, Bob said, ‘You know you might get some cabbage plants at the market in Maes Hir. Cheaper there than the shops.’
At once Connie offered to go. There was a chance she might see Sophie Daniels there.
On the morning of market day, Sophie was up early. She opened the door and stood outside, relishing the calm, fresh beauty of the early hour. It was not yet six o’clock and the birds were filling the air with song, adding to the joy of the morning. Behind her the fire crackled as the sticks blazed. The kettle, left overnight on the dying fire to retain some precious heat, wouldn’t take long to boil.
She was about to go back inside when a movement caught her eye. She stood still, expecting to see a cat, or the rich red of a fox, but the movement was something larger. A man stood in the top corner of the field, half hidden in the trees, a dog sitting at his heels, a broken gun over his arm.
He was tall and strongly built, she couldn’t guess his age, as the clothes he wore were those worn by most who worked on the land, whatever their age, although she had the impression he was dressed more smartly than most. It might be the farmer who owned the cottage. Hoping he hadn’t seen her, she sidled back around the doorpost and slowly closed the door. Heart racing, she watched through the window, expecting him to walk towards her, tell her she must leave.
Tommy Treweather’s son Ryan had been standing there for a while, perfectly still, looking down at the cottage. There were few discernible changes, yet it was different. It was no longer wearing the shroud of abandonment. There was an orderliness about the way brushes were lined up against the wall, a bucket precisely placed beside them. Curtains hung at the window, too, through which he could see an occasional flicker of flame from the fire, and a thin column of smoke issued from the chimney.
As he watched, the door opened and the woman came out draped in a blanket of some sort over long skirts. She appeared stooped as though bent with age, but from that distance she looked ageless. Fifties? Seventies? Certainly too old to be living in such an isolated place alone. He vaguely wondered whether something should be done. Then he moved away, unable to hear the sigh of pent-up breath that made Sophie’s shoulders droop even lower with relief.
An hour later she was ready to leave. She had filled her two willow baskets with jars of her home-made jams and pickles, and beside them were small paper bags labelled with the herbs she had gathered and dried. As she was about to close the door behind her she again saw a movement at the top of the field and darted back inside.
Through the window she saw a man approach, different from the first, impatient, walking purposefully towards the cottage. It wasn’t the man she had seen previously. This man was in his late thirties, smaller, slimmer, and he was dressed almost shabbily. A farm worker perhaps?
She quickly put the laden baskets back in the kitchen beside the sink and stood, anxiously waiting for the man to knock. Should she answer? Or just stay silent and hope he would go away? The decision was made for her as he walked straight in.
‘Who are you, and what are you doing in my uncle’s house?’ he demanded.
‘Sheltering for a while. Doing no harm,’ she replied in her high-pitched voice.
‘Then I have to tell you to leave,’ he said, looking around, taking in the attempts at furnishing the room. Trying not to look at the pale face of the young woman. Why had they presumed she was old? ‘Now. Today.’
‘Why?’ she dared to ask. ‘No one needs it and I haven’t done any damage. I’ll leave as soon as I find somewhere else but please, not today, there’s no need to be so unkind.’
He went through the room and looked into the kitchen. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, pointing to the baskets.
‘I make preserves when I can, and sell them at Maes Hir market.’
‘So you run a business and pay my uncle no rent?’
‘Hardly a business. Just enough to buy food.’
He looked at her then, and saw the anxiety in her eyes. She was no tramp, she was beautiful, and so young. Questions teemed through his mind, and he wondered why she was here all alone. She continued to stare at him and he started to feel uncomfortable. Uncle Tommy should have told her himself, not left the dirty work to him, as usual. ‘A week,’ he said more gently, ‘then I really will have to tell you to leave.’
‘Thank you.’
When Owen returned to the farm he turned on his aunt and uncle, telling them he wasn’t a dogsbody, to be given jobs no one else would do. ‘If you want her to leave then tell her yourselves,’ he said as he left the house minutes after walking in.
Ryan and Tommy stared after his retreating figure with surprise. It was not like Owen to be so outspoken, almost rude. He never complained, whatever he was asked to do: subservient would be how Ryan would have described him: aware of his lowly position in the family, so polite that the boys teased him. He wondered what the old vagrant woman had said to upset him so.
The small market town was bustling with its extra visitors. Connie Tanner walked among the stalls, taking in what was on offer but at the same time searching the crowds in the hope of seeing Sophie. She had been there for an hour and was about to give up when she saw her alighting from the bus.
‘Hello,’ she said, stepping forward to help with the heavy baskets. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’
‘I was delayed and almost didn’t come at all.’
Connie didn’t dare ask a question, instead she dropped the basket when Sophie had chosen a place just outside the area of stalls, where she hoped not to be charged rent, and with a friendly smile she wandered off to meet Stella as arranged.
They watched for a while as the girl sold her stock, smiling at people she had seen before, dropping the coins into a bag strung round her tiny waist. They bought cups of tea from the café and took one to Sophie, ignoring her refusal, leaving it on the wall behind her. She drank it gratefully. With the visits from the farmer and his nephew, she hadn’t managed to have more than a glass of water that morning.
When they saw that her baskets were almost empty Stella went up to Sophie and offered her some early rhubarb. ‘My Colin grows it on our allotment, see,’ she explained, ‘and there’s more than we’ll ever use. A bit of ginger and you’ll make a delicious jam.’
Somewhat doubtfully, Sophie thanked her and wondered with dread if the woman would call to deliver it.
‘I’ve got some spare jars, too, and if you’d like to swap for some tea, I can let you have some sugar,’ Stella went on.
More subdued thanks and Connie added, ‘We won’t call, though, it’s a long way, but if you come to the post office they’ll be there on the counter for you to pick up. Right?’
A woman in the familiar uniform of the WAAF walked past and Sophie followed her with her eyes, a longing to see Daphne filling her with an ache. A friend to share some of the lonely hours was a luxury she would never find. When she had lost her family she abandoned everyone else, too.
At the bus stop Sophie stood in the queue for the bus to Cwm Derw, but when she saw Stella and the others at the end of it she changed her mind and hurried off. Better to wait for the next one rather than have to talk all the way back. Kind as they were, she couldn’t cope with that. People exhausted her, and there was always the fear of someone trying to get too close, and asking questions she didn’t want to answer, reopening old wounds.
To her dismay, a small figure was sitting leaning against her door when she reached the cottage. The small boy waved and ran to meet her. ‘I brought you some jars and things,’ he said proudly. ‘I heard Stella Jones, her at the post office, talking to her old man about you and your jams and things, so I brought what I could find. They’ll need a wash mind,’ he warned.
She smiled. It was such a kind thought even though he was probably hoping for a few pennies. She put down the baskets and offered him a sixpenny piece.
‘Ta, miss. A bag of chips for supper. Smashing.’
She stood waiting for him to leave but he seemed in no hurry.
‘Like chips, do you?’ he asked.
‘I don’t buy them very often.’
‘What d’you have for supper then?’
‘Toast in front of the fire once I get it glowing sufficiently.’
‘That sounds good. I get fed up with chips. Mam doesn’t like cooking, see,’ he explained.
‘And what about your father, does he like chips?’
‘Oh him, he hopped it years ago.’
She invited him in.
They ate salad, which included dandelion leaves and the first pickings of watercress from the brook a couple of miles away, and home-made bread with a bowl of soup made from onions, carrots and the tops of nettles that were just beginning to grow at the edge of the field. Bertie pulled faces but accepted a second helping. He walked home feeling bloated after the unusual and delicious meal, and it felt good.
The following morning when Sophie stepped outside and looked up at the sky she saw clouds, fast moving, driven by a strong wind. They darkened and dropped lower as she walked around, the scent of garlic strong as she crushed the new leaves. She admired the new growth all around her: the hint of purple on distant birch trees and the spears of bluebells already piercing the soil. A few wild daffodils had survived the children’s gathering and the fields were edged with blackthorn, delicate white flowers against the dark branches. She felt the chill of the rising wind and stood for a while enjoying the freshness of the disturbed air as she waited for the kettle to boil on the fire.
After she had made a loaf of soda bread and prepared a vegetable casserole for later, she threw on a cloak and picked up a basket to search for whatever she could find in the fields and woods.
The wind continued to pick up and there was a restlessness about the trees. The birds were now silent and in spite of the movement there was a kind of hush, an expectancy: a storm was brewing. Tightening her belt and fastening the shawls around her head more securely, she walked on. She wandered further than usual and found herself in the wood near Badgers Brook.
She came at the house from the back, where the garden faced south and was bounded by a beech hedge. There was a gap through which she could see the house, and she was curious. The place had an abandoned unlived-in look. Leaves and branches and a few newspapers had blown against the walls and doorway. Abandoned toys and a broken chair had been piled as though ready for a bonfire, and there were no curtains at the wide, rain-splattered windows. Looking up she saw that at one window a curtain had been caught as the window had been closed, the tattered material waving sadly, like a flag when the carnival has moved on.
Pushing her way through the hedge at the weak point, she went closer. She stared into the ground-floor rooms; in one a couch stood near an empty grate and in another, the kitchen facing the lane, there was a long, scrubbed table and two chairs. The place was hardly enticing, but something about its strong walls and its isolated situation appealed to her. ‘If only I could live in a place like this,’ she whispered, ‘I just know I’d be happy.’
She heard voices then and looked around for a place to hide. As she turned to run back to the gap in the hedge, she saw Connie and Geoff watching her, smiling in a friendly manner, Connie holding out her hand.
Geoff said, ‘See? I told you she’d find her way here.’
‘I’m sorry, I know I’m trespassing, but I was curious and—’
‘It’s all right,’ Geoff said. ‘You’re welcome. Would you like to see inside? Come on, let’s get out of the rain for a while.’
While Connie unpacked the usual picnic in the kitchen, Sophie happily wandered from room to room, imagining herself living there, alone but content, and perhaps gaining strength and gradually making friends.
‘I love it here,’ she said when they had eaten Connie’s picnic. ‘I can’t imagine anyone being unhappy here for long.’
‘And are you unhappy?’ Connie asked.
‘I need solitude, but that isn’t being unhappy, is it?’
‘The place is for rent,’ Geoff said.
‘I don’t think I could afford it, I don’t make much with my preserves.’ She began to move towards the door.
‘Get a job and earn a little, the rent isn’t high.’
‘I’m not ready for that, not yet.’
Connie packed the remnants of the food back into the bag and they stood to leave. ‘You know where to find us if you change your mind,’ she said with an encouraging smile.
When Sophie went outside the wind was bending the slenderest trees this way and that, in a wild dance. She walked through the wood to where the stream passed through the trees like a silver ribbon, glinting and darkening as the trees moved to allow the light to reach its ruffled surface. The sounds of creaking, and the weird, unworldly, discordant shrieks as branches rubbed together, began to seem like threats, a reminder that she ought to be away from falling branches. She protected her half-filled basket under her coat and hurried home.
On the step, his coat pulled up to cover his head, looking a picture of misery, was Bertie.
‘Any chance of something to eat?’ he asked, following her inside. He revived the fire, and pushed the kettle over its flames. Smiling, she put two plates on the hearth to warm and tested the heat of the casserole. ‘You shouldn’t be out in weather like this,’ she scolded mildly.
‘Neither should you, miss,’ he retorted.
‘Stay for supper but then I’ll walk you back home,’ she told him.
‘No need, eyes like a cat I have, be home in no time.’
‘Don’t go through the woods, the trees are waving dangerously. Some branches will fall.’
‘All right, miss.’
For a while the stout old walls gave a comfortable sense of security as the storm howled around them. Smoke failed to go up the chimney; instead the wind sent it puffing into the room and the fire burned sluggishly.
They ate a meal and hung the herbs she had gathered in the chimney corner to dry, wondering if they would taste of anything other than smoke and soot. She felt the draught as the door opened and with a ‘Ta, miss,’ Bertie was gone before she could do as she intended and walk him home. She opened the door and called for him to wait, but he’d been swallowed up by the darkness.
It was too early to sleep but there was little she could do. The room was cold, as though the wind was sucking out all the warmth; better to save the candles and go to bed.
She lay on her makeshift bed on the couch against the wall opposite the fire and for a while she thought about living in Badgers Brook. She had enough money to rent it, if she succumbed to her weakening reluctance and spent some of the money in her bank account. But wouldn’t it would be a mistake to spend money on renting a property that was too large, and with all that garden? It was much more than she needed, or could manage.
What would she do if she did move in? Was the house worth making the necessary effort needed to force herself to face the world and find a job? She couldn’t. She wasn’t ready. She closed her eyes but knew she wouldn’t sleep. The storm was worsening and the wildness was exciting and would keep her awake. Ten minutes later she was asleep.
The storm invaded her sleep and brought a return of the nightmares she had suffered at the time her family had been taken from her. She saw falling masonry and heard the sound of smashing glass, the screams of those trapped and injured, and the faces of those she had lost came to her one by one. She felt them close to her: Mam, Dad, Carrie and Frank, Auntie Maggie, Uncle Albert, Gran and Gramps.
At one a.m. she was woken by the realization that the shattering of glass wasn’t a dream. All around her were warnings of danger, tapping and banging, louder and louder. Something was happening to the house itself. She reached for her coat and slid from under the covers.
The cacophony was alarming. Things were being blown around in the yard, windows rattled and the whole house was shaking as though being pulled apart by a giant hand. The loud banging came from above and she was relieved when it stopped. Yet she still held her breath and waited. Would it return and destroy the place and bury her? She couldn’t escape, there was nowhere safer than the building where she stood. But she was very afraid.
She couldn’t see anything through the windows and the sounds were impossible to identify. She crouched near the door and waited for the storm to blow itself out, but it wasn’t finished yet.
The loud banging began again, and this time the walls seemed to shake with the force of it. Then she heard tinkling glass, almost musical but swiftly followed by fierce cracking sounds and a kind of roar. Then something cumbersome and heavy, sliding, shrieking as though in agony, and falling. It went on and on. Surely it couldn’t be the roof? A draught filled the room and lifted ashes in the grate, snatching at the bedding and swinging the curtains like the skirts of a dancer.
She went to the stairs and took a few hesitant steps. She looked up. Rain was falling on to her face and the sounds had changed to a high-pitched wailing. The banging had changed to a constant rattling. The roof was gone.
She had to get out, but to where? She couldn’t go into the farmhouse, which was always locked. There was the outbuilding, but that was more dilapidated than the house, although it did have a roof. She wrapped herself in as many clothes and blankets as she could, and, in a brief lull in the weather, she ran to the other building. The door was swinging and she closed it behind her with difficulty, then stood panting, as though she had run for miles, before slowly sinking to the floor.
She had to find a safe place. This was a reminder that she couldn’t go on running away. The offer of Badgers Brook followed by the storm that had destroyed her temporary home must be a sign. Tomorrow she would go and find Connie and Geoff Tanner and, somehow, she would find a way of staying in Badgers Brook. She was frightened at the prospect, facing people and answering their questions would be hard. But once it was done she might find peace again. Peering through the hedge and finding the house, and within hours losing the cottage in the storm; surely it meant something was telling her it was time to end her isolation? She was frightened but she knew the time was right.