People awoke the morning after the violent storm, with memories of air raids during the recent war painfully revived. The aftermath of that wild night, the anxious moments as daylight dawned and they checked their properties, and ran to make sure families, neighbours and friends were safe, were strong reminders of those terrible years.
Bob checked their house on the lane near Badgers Brook while Kitty brushed away the rubbish gathered outside the house. Stella and Colin checked and found to their relief that no serious damage was apparent at the post office. Both wondered how their allotment had fared, but neither had time to go and look. Geoff checked on his stocks of wood, including plywood for boarding up the inevitable broken windows, and nails and screws, which he knew would be needed in large quantities as problems were revealed.
On Treweather Farm the men went out and found the animals nervous but safe. A door had been blown off its hinges and the chickens were chortling happily as they wandered around the yard, freed from their night-time shelter earlier than usual but unharmed.
Betty Connors spotted a slipped slate on the roof of the Ship and Compass and called to her brother to get in touch with the builder to get it fixed.
‘Later,’ he said, to her surprise and irritation. ‘First I’m going to see if Elsie needs help.’
‘Ed, I need you here. If that slate isn’t fixed others will follow it and—’ She was wasting her breath, Her brother had grabbed a coat and was heading for the door. She ran after him and called, ‘Ed, it’s here you work, not Elsie’s B&B!’
‘Then as an employee,’ he said sarcastically, ‘I’m letting you know I won’t be in today.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She was shocked by his attitude. What was the matter with him? He worked here, lived here and she should be able to depend on him. She reached for the telephone and irritably asked the builder to call and deal with the roof. Then she thought maybe she was being selfish – it was only a slipped slate and there would be plenty of others in more urgent need of help this morning. Then she remembered Sophie.
Sophie stayed curled up in a tight ball, wrapped in the bedding she had brought, close to the door of the building she used as a storeroom. She had ventured no further in as she was afraid of being trapped, with the wind lashing against the walls and the alarming sounds of large objects being thrown about outside.
She must have dozed eventually, as she became aware of light defining the edges of the door and the silence beyond. She didn’t move for a moment or two, afraid of a revival of the storm, but it had blown itself out, and outside, where dawn was breaking, birdsong was a gentle chorus to greet the new day.
She stretched and stood up. Then, still wrapped in the bedding, she opened the door and looked out. The yard was strewn with branches and several items she hadn’t seen before: boxes, empty paint tins, a bucket, a broken chair. A door stood propped at an angle against a wall, and she vaguely recognized it as being from one of the half-demolished outhouses. Then she looked up at the cottage and saw to her disbelief that it was a different shape. A large section of the roof had been lifted and tilted and was now leaning lazily against a wall of the house it had once protected. She went cautiously outside and looked around her. Nothing was where it should be; buckets and brooms and the small ramshackle shed housing her woodpile had all vanished.
She was chilled and thirsty and went into what remained of the cottage, to the hearth where the previous day’s ashes were covered in a thick layer of soot. It would take ages to clean and it would have to be done before lighting a fire. There was no alternative as she desperately needed a hot drink. She put aside the bedding, rolled up her sleeves and began. Without a shovel or a bucket it was difficult, but she used cardboard to lift the soot, which she placed on to spread newspapers. An hour later she had a fire burning and the kettle was beginning to hum.
She had cleaned the living room as well as she could and was sitting beside the now blazing fire hugging a cup of tea when she heard voices.
‘Sophie? Are you all right?’ Geoff called.
Sophie went outside and waved her cup. She didn’t want visitors but knew that the previous night’s plan must hold. The time had come when she had to accept the hand of friendship when it was offered, before loneliness became an unalterable way of life.
‘Would you like some tea?’ she invited, and went inside to wipe clean another cup and saucer.
‘Are you all right?’ Geoff repeated. ‘We were a bit worried, the storm was so fierce.’
‘I went into the outhouse as it seemed safer, but this room isn’t damaged, except that the fireplace was a mess of soot and it took an age before I could make myself a cup of tea.’
‘You obviously can’t stay here now,’ Geoff warned, putting the bread and milk Connie had sent on the dust-laden table.
Suddenly in a panic Sophie revoked her decision to move. She needed the solitude and security for a while longer. She wasn’t ready. ‘I’ll be all right. Once I block off the stairs to cut out the draughts it’ll be cosy,’ she insisted.
‘Badgers Brook is empty.’
‘I don’t want to pay rent until I can earn some money. Savings soon disappear once the first few pounds are used.’ The main fear was not of her savings, which she had sworn not to touch, but the thought of becoming a part of a community; she still wasn’t prepared to cope with that. But, a voice inside her warned, how much longer can you wait to be ready? Time is passing and every day is making it more difficult, not easier. She knew she was running away from a problem that couldn’t be outpaced.
Geoff helped her to clear away the worst of the outside rubbish, dragging branches away from the cottage, heaving against the roof to make sure it wouldn’t fall any further.
‘Are you able to work? Do you have any qualifications? Experience?’ he asked, and when there was no reply he apologized. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’
Perhaps now was the time to make the break from her isolation. Perhaps these patient and kindly people were the sign for which she had been waiting.
‘I’m sorry if we’re interfering. Perhaps I should go.’ He looked out through the doorway and added, ‘I’ll just move the last of the branches away from your path then I’ll get back to the shop. Connie is bound to be busy and she’s only got young Joyce to help her.’
Almost startled into the present, pulled away from her thoughts, Sophie hurriedly apologized. ‘Sorry, my mind was drifting. I know you don’t mean to pry. It’s just that I’m not ready yet, to work or to answer questions. Making a decision can be frightening.’
‘Or exciting. And sometimes the decision is made for us.’
Sophie agreed. His words were echoing her own thoughts.
‘We can give you a month before you start paying rent, but we’ll understand if you think we’re interfering,’ Geoff said after dragging away the final barrier to her path. ‘But think about it. We just feel that the house is the right one for you.’ He looked at her and saw that her face was troubled. He picked up his coat and stepped through the door. ‘You’ll find us at the hardware store on Steeple Street,’ he reminded her. ‘Just come when you’re ready.’
She thanked him for his help and promised she would give consideration to the idea of living in Badgers Brook.
She sat for a long time after Geoff had gone and she was so wrapped in her thoughts that she was startled to see a man standing in the doorway. She hadn’t heard him coming. He wore a well-fitting countryman’s jacket, and leather leggings confined his corduroy trousers. A gun hung over his arm, which he put down to rest against the door. Sophie didn’t recognize him; it wasn’t the farmer who had told her to leave. This man was larger, younger – and he was smiling.
‘You survived the storm, then?’
‘If you’ve come to remind me I have to leave, please give me a few more days. I have to find a new home and move all my possessions, you see.’
His smile widened as he looked around the shabby room with its makeshift furnishings. ‘No van needed, then. A couple of wheelbarrow loads will suffice! But no, I haven’t come to ask you to move. I wanted to make sure you were unhurt. You aren’t doing any harm and there’s no one else wanting to live here in the back of beyond. But I do think you ought to find a better home. This one is no longer safe.’
‘But the other man told me to get out within the week,’ she said with a frown.
It was his turn to frown. ‘That was probably my cousin, Owen. I’m Ryan Treweather, by the way, my parents and my brother and I own the farm, and the big house next door was our home when we were small. Owen works for us. So I’m your landlord, I suppose. If you want anything, I’ll try to help – short of replacing the roof. It’s a miracle it’s lasted so long. It was an odd shape with the cottage tacked carelessly on to the farmhouse and the walls being only mud, and it wasn’t property secured.’
‘How long has this place been here?’ she asked.
He looked at her, wanting to share the joke, head back, filling the room with his laughter. ‘Only a mere two hundred years!’ He looked at her more seriously and said, ‘But the place has really gone now. I can’t help you stay here, but anything else I can do, please ask.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Any tea in that pot?’
Ryan stayed for a couple of hours, helping to clean the room and making it safe by fixing a door at the bottom of the stairs where there had been one long ago. Together they gathered wood suitable for the fire, which they put into a rickety shed, now lacking a door. He talked about his childhood, and Fred Yates, who had once lived in the cottage, seeming to enjoy the journey into his past. Sophie said little, just enough to start him off again when he fell silent. When he left he promised to call again. ‘And I’ll bring a wheelbarrow when you’re ready to move out,’ he said as he walked away laughing.
First Geoff Tanner and now this smiling, kind-hearted farmer’s son. Life was certainly telling her something!
She knew the laughter drifting back to her was friendly, and stood waving until he was lost to sight among the trees at the top of the field. The room seemed empty without him, the loneliness no longer appealing.
Everywhere she walked that afternoon she saw evidence of the storm. As she approached the town she heard the sound of hammers and saws and imagined the activity as repairs were hastily carried out for fear of a return of the winds as night approached.
Badgers Brook appeared to have survived unharmed. Some twigs had fallen from the ash trees near by. Late to leaf, early to fall, and always quick to shed small branches, they were never chosen by nesting birds. Beautiful but barren, she mused. Everything else about the solid-looking house seemed unharmed. The windows shone in the afternoon sun and she smiled as she looked up at the roof, sound and secure without even a slipped slate.
She knew then that she would live there. From the first glimpse through the hedge she had dreamed of it being her home, yet at that moment it had been a ridiculous thought. Even now the idea was completely without logic. She could manage perfectly well in one room, so why was she even considering this large house? Yet she peered through the windows, imagining herself there. The rooms were large and quite a few pounds would be needed to furnish them. It would mean invading her bank account – money she didn’t want to use.
She took a bus into town and stepped off near the hardware store. Through the window she saw Geoff serving a customer, and beside him Connie, writing something in a ledger. When she opened the door they smiled and waved a welcome, but neither seemed very surprised to see her.
News travels, and the following morning Ryan Treweather arrived pushing a large, seriously rusted wheelbarrow.
‘I hear you’re moving,’ he said, laughing at her expression as she stared at the dilapidated barrow. ‘I’ve come to help.’ She smiled, enjoying the joke as he pushed it into the hedge from where he had taken it.
He went inside and listened as she began to tell him of her decision to rent the house owned by Geoff and Connie Tanner, but he knew all about it.
‘Stella Jones at the post office filters all the news, and she heard it from Connie and spread it wide. It doesn’t worry you, does it? I’m afraid Cwm Derw is the sort of town that thrives on gossip.’ She looked serious and he wanted to make her smile. ‘There was the time the postman met my mother and told her I was coming home the following day. “Just delivered the card, so you’d better get some extra food to save you coming down again,” he told her. There isn’t much that goes on here that isn’t passed on, but in a caring way,’ he said. ‘A postcard came once for Elsie Clements confirming a booking for a group of cyclists arriving the following day and the baker and the milkman knew before she did.’
‘There are a lot of cyclists passing through, usually in groups. Heading for the youth hostel, I suppose. It must be a pleasant way to travel.’
‘Have you ever tried it?’
‘I had a cycle once.’ She thought of the happy holiday-makers and of the last time she had ridden. She and Daphne riding through ruined streets, so sure that her family were safe, protected by her confidence. She remembered them laughing, excited, on the morning of what should have been her wedding day.
‘Why the sad face?’ Ryan asked. ‘Sad memories?’
‘Just people I’ve lost.’ Hurriedly, anxious to change the subject before Ryan asked more questions, she smiled and said, ‘I think this is the right place for me to settle. I’ve been wandering around for years looking for a community to which I can belong. If I can be healed, it will be here.’ She moved abruptly then, as though regretting having said so much, revealing something she wanted to remain hidden.
‘Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll bring a van,’ he promised, touching her shoulder in a way that promised friendship, before leaving.
Once again she felt a loss as he disappeared through the trees.
‘Telling you to go, was he? Miserable man.’
She turned to see the boy watching from the corner. ‘No, Bertie, he was offering to help me. Now, why aren’t you in school?’
‘Headache all over, miss, right down to me big toe,’ he replied before running off.
On market day Sophie went with two heavy baskets and sold most of her produce, and the following day she went looking for furniture. Having seen that there was already a couch and a kitchen table at Badgers Brook, she listed the larger items she would need: bed, cupboards, chests of drawers, a few chairs. Besides these, her greatest need was for bed linen and soft furnishings, and all these she managed to buy second hand with a promise of delivery the following weekend.
On the day she had arranged to move into Badgers Brook she woke early and began to put her possessions and the last of her stock of preserves outside ready to go on to the promised van. A car stopped in the lane and she glanced at her watch. If it was Ryan he was much earlier than planned. But it wasn’t the friendly Ryan, it was the older man, Owen. And he was not friendly.
‘I thought I told you to leave! Get off this land, you’re trespassing. And take all this junk with you.’
‘But I am moving. Today. You can see that. I’m waiting for the van to arrive.’ She almost said, ‘Waiting for Ryan, your cousin,’ but did not. She simply wasn’t any good at confrontations. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘Be out of here in an hour or I’ll bring the tractor and run over this mess, and that’s a promise.’
A stone hit him on the shoulder, and although it obviously had not come from her direction he turned and glared at her. ‘Who threw that?’ he demanded. A second stone caught him on the ear and he put his hand up and held it, twisting round in pain. Sophie had her suspicions but said nothing.
She heard a van pull up and was relieved to see Ryan appear.
‘Owen?’ he said at once. ‘What are you doing here? Is everything all right?’
‘Just telling this trespasser to leave. She was told to be gone days ago.’
‘You won’t have to wait any longer,’ Ryan said grimly. ‘In fact, now you’re here you can help me load up the van, and be careful not to damage anything.’
Sophie went back inside leaving the two men arguing. She walked around the room that had been her home, touching the walls, opening and closing the oven door beside the now cold fire. It was exciting to be leaving but there was a foolish part of her that felt she was letting the house down by abandoning it to its fate.
She unnecessarily checked to make sure the fire was completely out, piled into a cardboard box the small amount of firewood she and Ryan had gathered ready to be transported to her new home, and when she went outside again the van was packed and Ryan was waiting for her.
Ryan helped her into the passenger seat and drove down the lane, but although she wanted to look back for a final glimpse of her temporary home, she couldn’t. In the van close behind them she’d have met the angry gaze of Owen Treweather.
Ryan didn’t stay. He carried her belongings inside and after seeing that a fire was burning in the living room and there was a kettle ready filled on the gas cooker he left her to sort herself out.
Owen was furious. Being made to look foolish in front of that woman was the very end. For years he had suffered the constant reminders of his lowly position in the family. He and the twins had the same grandfather; he belonged on Treweather land as much as they did.
Something twisted within him as he stood on the field amid the sheep, looking around him at the land owned by Tommy. He was a Treweather, and therefore entitled to his share of the family money, and if he wasn’t going to be given it then he would take it. Right was on his side even though the law was not.
As he walked back to where he had parked the van he saw Sarah. In his present mood his anger and frustration at the way his life was going simply overflowed. ‘What are you doing here? You don’t have the right to walk these fields.’
‘A few branches of catkins? If you can’t spare them you can have them back!’ She thrust the branches at him and turned away.
She was trying not to cry when she met Bertie from school. She thought a couple of branches with the catkins might have cheered her a little. He even had to spoil that for them.
The accommodation she had found for them was even sadder than before. A rather dark room at the back of a house with a shared kitchen and an outside lavatory. What a mess she had made of her life. ‘Hurry up,’ she said to Bertie as he scuttled along in shoes that were a couple of sizes too large. ‘I’ve got things to do if we’re going to get settled before bed time.’
‘I’m hungry, Mam.’
‘We’ll have some toast later if I can get the fire to draw properly.’
‘Can’t I go and see Miss? She always has something nice to eat.’
‘No, and you must stop bothering her, d’you hear me?’
Bertie kicked out at a dandelion and his shoe sailed through the air. He laughed but Sarah didn’t.
At Badgers Brook the furniture Sophie had bought had arrived and she busied herself setting it out and making up the bed in the room she had chosen: one that overlooked the garden. Then she checked inside and out and was pleased to find a store of wood and some coal. A note on the kitchen table had welcomed her to her new home and contained an explanation of the workings of the geyser in the bathroom and a few other pieces of information.
She was anxious when a knock at the door heralded a visitor; she wasn’t ready to face new people. But she looked around the house as though seeking encouragement then pulled back her shoulders and went to face the beginning of her new life.
The caller was the first of several, neighbours mostly, as well as Betty Connors, who left the Ship and Compass in her brother’s reluctant care to bring Welsh cakes – the flat spicy cakes cooked on a griddle – plus coal and salt for luck. Gradually Sophie relaxed and accepted the welcoming visits, which were friendly and mercifully short. None stayed to ask questions, the thing she had most dreaded.
A few days later Badgers Brook had woven its spell and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Her reticence was simply ignored, and a stream of visitors continued to pass through, bringing small gifts, offering help if needed, and wishing her well. The town of Cwm Derw had taken her to its heart.
Stella’s shop had a queue down to the corner and around into the next street. Sweets were off ration from the 24th April and the children were not alone in wanting to give themselves a treat. Colin worked on the railway and as he was on a late shift he was free to go to the wholesalers for replenishments as the stocks ran low.
‘Damn me,’ he said when he had to go a second time. ‘At this rate they’ll be back on ration again soon!’ He was unaware of how prophetic his words would be.
When the doors finally closed on the post office, and with the last of the customers’ complaints at having to wait ten minutes to buy a stamp ringing in her ears, Stella called at Badgers Brook with Colin, bringing a box of plants. ‘Herbs they are, a bit small, mind, but well rooted. Marvellous gardener, my Colin, we’ve got an allotment – you must come and have a cup of tea in our country cottage.’
Sophie was curious as she had presumed they lived behind the post office, but, typically, she refrained from asking where the country cottage might be. She didn’t want to answer questions so tried not to ask any.
Kitty and Bob Jennings came with cakes and a precious packet of tea, spared from their small ration, explaining. ‘You’ll never keep up with us all popping in to say hello, otherwise.’ She laughed then. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be as bad as you fear. Once you settle in and people have all had a good nose they’ll leave you alone.’
The one visitor she had expected didn’t come. Ryan Treweather seemed to have forgotten all about her. She wasn’t sure whether she was disappointed or relieved. Close friendship was not what she was looking for. She was all alone in the world and, being alone, she needed to be alone to sort out her feelings.
Three cyclists had travelled fifty miles in the rain and decided not to continue for another ten as planned, but stay in the next town they reached. They found a bed and breakfast where the landlady kindly dried their wet clothes and fed them generously before showing them a room with three single beds. Their next destination was only ten miles away, so, accepting that they were a day behind their schedule, tomorrow would be an easy day. Time to explore. Before they set off the following morning, Daphne asked at the post office if there was a Sophie Daniels living in the area but, as so many times before, the answer was no.
Sophie had allowed herself a week to settle in and then she had to face up to her fears and find a job. While her mind spun with the number of ways in which she could earn a little money she explored the garden. It seemed well stocked and she wondered who had looked after it since the previous tenants had left. In a sheltered corner rhubarb was still protected by broken upside-down buckets filled with straw, and the pale pink stems were already tall and strong. They would make some attractively coloured jams. Fruit bushes and trees were an exciting find, and there were a few spindly leeks and some winter cabbages left. Vegetable seeds were planted in neatly sieved ground with labels showing what each row held. Carrots, radishes, parsnips, peas. Some were already breaking through the earth. The rest of the vegetable garden was dug ready for the new planting and she lifted handfuls of the rich loam to her face, its smell filling her with indefinable excitement.
Brambles were growing in a sunny corner and she picked some of the freshly sprouted leaves for drying to make a substitute tea. Kitty Jennings had been right about the need for tea to supply her many visitors. She would drink the substitute tea, and the coffee-flavour drink she made from the roots of dandelion, and save the ration for them.
There were a few things she still needed, and, carrying one of her large baskets, she walked to the end of the lane and caught the bus into the town. The post office was empty and Stella persuaded her to stay for a cup of tea, telling her to go in and make it. Three cats ran off, deeply offended at being disturbed, and the little dog wagged his tail then settled back to sleep. She carried the tray into the shop and, sitting on a chair beside the counter, answered Stella’s questions while managing not to tell her all she wanted to know.
When she left, grasping a hastily drawn map that she was told would lead her to Stella and Colin’s allotment and country cottage, she headed for the second-hand shop in the hope of some plates and dishes. On the corner, not far from where the bus stopped, she saw a small figure bending over and selecting things from the gutter. She didn’t call but walked towards him. He hid what he had in his hand and looked guilty.
‘Hello, miss. Where’ve you got to? I’ve been to the cottage but it’s empty.’
‘What are you doing, Bertie?’ she asked, making a grab for his hand, which was making a tight fist. ‘Let me see, please. I’m not going to harm you.’ Slowly a grubby hand uncurled to reveal three cigarette ends.
‘Bertie! Surely you don’t smoke these filthy things?’
‘Not me, miss, but there’s an old man who lives under the railway arch who does. I get him some when no one’s looking so he don’t have to go out in the rain, see.’
‘Doesn’t have to go out in the rain,’ she corrected automatically.
‘Doesn’t have to go out. He sleeps in his clothes and it can’t be no – any good for him, can it, miss?’
She smiled her slow, gentle smile and held out her hand. ‘I think it’s best not to collect them for him. They aren’t clean, you see, and they could harm him. Besides, I think your mother would be upset if she saw you, don’t you?’
‘She does fuss a bit, miss.’
‘Will you let me walk home with you?’
‘No need, I’ve got a brand new bike over there.’ He pointed vaguely towards the row of houses adjoining the post office and ran off. She went around the other end of the row and watched as he walked disconsolately away. The new bike was a dream, and she knew all about dreams.
A few days later he called at Badgers Brook and offered to show her where the badgers lived. She invited him in and after they had shared a meal of sour milk cheese and soda bread she again asked why he wasn’t at school. He coughed loudly and theatrically and explained he was too ill to go. She encouraged him to talk about his favourite lessons and those he disliked, trying to pick up a clue to tell her the real reason he avoided school.
The following morning there was a loud knocking at the door and Sophie left the salad she was making and went to open it, smiling in expectation of seeing one of her new friends. A woman stood there, someone she hadn’t seen before.
‘I’ve called to ask you to please stop encouraging my Bertie to stay away from school,’ she said. She was fair, her face pale, the blue eyes gentle. She stared as she waited for Sophie’s response. Her voice was soft, without anger, even breathless with anxiety.
Sophie stared at her in surprise. ‘Are you Bertie’s mother?’
‘I am, and I’ve had the school board man round again this morning.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I send him off every morning but he never gets to the school gates. I want you to stop inviting him here.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs – er – but I have no control over your son. Do you have any idea why he isn’t attending?’
The woman shrugged. ‘He says he gets muddled with arithmetic, but he won’t let me help.’
‘Perhaps, if we put our heads together, we might work out a way to help him.’ Sophie opened the door wider and invited the woman inside.
‘He hasn’t got a father, see, but that applies to many of his friends and they don’t cause their mothers such trouble.’
‘Mitching from school isn’t such a terrible crime, and it’s usually sorted fairly easily. Don’t let the school board man frighten you, Mrs…’ Again she allowed a pause, inviting the woman to give her name, but it was ignored.
Sophie made tea and brought out some small cakes flavoured with honey and cinnamon. They discussed the various reasons for Bertie avoiding school and his mother admitted to letting him wander as and where he wanted, without much attempt at controlling him.
‘I have to work, you see, having no husband, and my parents aren’t much help, so when I’m late home or I have to leave before he gets up in the mornings I really can’t be sure he does as I tell him.’
‘And you can’t change your job? Find something that will enable you to be home when he needs you?’
‘I’m not trained for anything. I worked in a factory during the war and when the war ended, being on my own, I stayed on there, making different things, of course, but still with the awkward shifts. I don’t have much choice, do I?’
‘Your husband?’ Sophie asked softly. ‘He was a victim of the war?’
‘Not him. He lives not two miles away and ignores us completely.’
‘How can that be?’
‘I had a baby, Bertie. It happened while he was away in the army, and he’ll never forgive me.’
The woman left soon after and Sophie sat for a long time thinking about what she had learned, and about Bertie. She’d been surprised to learn that Bertie was only eight, younger than she had imagined. Being allowed to run wild had given him a spurious adulthood and encouraged him to think he was too old to listen to the childish chatter of his classroom friends. After all, he was the man of the house, wasn’t he? Poor little love.
It wasn’t until later that day that she realized how easily she had got into conversation with the stranger at her door. A few short weeks ago she had been too afraid to say more than the few words necessary to sell her produce. She had changed so much, although the underlying fear of friendships and sharing her tragic history was still there. Would that ever leave her? She looked around her, at the walls of the house and through the windows at the garden and woods beyond, and knew that this was a haven, a place where she could lick her wounds and where, one day, she would recover.
She wondered about the absence of Ryan Treweather and decided that he, too, had simply wanted her to leave but had dealt with her removal in a more kindly manner. Whenever she thought of him she imagined him laughing.
One sunny afternoon she set off to explore the woods across the lane. The ground was muddy and she gathered a stick to use as support when she crossed particularly slippery places. She found the route used by animals crossing the stream, a well-worn path clearly seen. On the branches nearby and on wire fences she found coarse grey hairs and knew she was in the area used by badgers.
The sett was not far inside the trees, and she stood marvelling at its size and wondering if she could find a place to stand and wait for them to emerge one evening. She’d never seen one of the shy creatures and determined to try.
‘Don’t talk about it, or tell anyone where to find it,’ a voice warned, and she turned to see Ryan watching her from the shadows of the trees.
‘Hello, I didn’t see you there. I’m just exploring my new neighbourhood.’
‘You live near here?’
‘Of course I do!’ She laughed, presuming he was teasing.
‘I haven’t seen you around before. If we’d met I’d certainly have remembered.’ He was frowning and she became alarmed. From his expression he wasn’t joking. So why was he pretending not to know her?
‘Come on, you helped me to move,’ she said, edging away from him. ‘You remember that, surely? From Threeways cottage?’
His expression changed, his eyes softening from curiosity into amusement. ‘You’re the woman who lived in Threeways cottage?’
Still alarmed, she said, ‘I am the woman who lived in the cottage, you know that full well, so why the pretence?’
He stepped forward and held out a hand, the smile widening. ‘I’m Gareth Treweather, Ryan’s twin.’ He watched her as realization dawned. Then she tentatively held out her small slim hand. He held it and said, ‘I’ve only seen you from a a distance and I thought you were about eighty!’
‘Really? Why?’
‘You were wrapped in layers of shawls and blankets and you stooped, as though afraid to stare life in the face.’
She was startled by his observation. ‘I don’t bother much about clothes. And when you travel it’s the easiest way to carry them.’
‘Look, the farmhouse is only five minutes away, come and meet the rest of the family.’ Without giving her a chance to refuse he took her arm and guided her through a gate and across a field, beyond which the roof and smoking chimney were just visible over the hill.
Before they reached it, a man appeared, carrying two sticks across his shoulder, to which were tied a dozen rabbits. Sophie shuddered and looked away. The man at once noticed her distress and dropped them to the ground and covered them with his coat.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked, offering a hand.
‘I don’t know her name but she was living in old Fred Yates’s cottage until recently.’ Introductions made, Peter Bevan went on his way, to tell his wife he’d met the newcomer to Cwm Derw.
‘Peter used to sell from a horse and cart but he’s recently opened a fruit and veg shop,’ she was told. ‘He sells off-ration rabbits and pigeons that he takes from our fields. Rooks, too, when food is short – it helps to feed families.’ There was a hint of disapproval in his voice, aware that she hadn’t liked the sight of dead animals, and presuming that, like most, she hated the evidence but never refused the food. Death of an animal was treated like murder but most willingly accepted the meat when it was cooked and offered on a plate.
‘I never eat meat,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear to look at a beautiful animal and imagine its end.’
‘Don’t tell my parents. It’s how we earn our living.’ The criticism was still there.
‘There has been so much killing,’ she murmured. ‘Too much. I can’t accept it, not even to help feed families.’
His disapproval was like a cloud settling around them. They walked in silence and she studied him and noted the ever so slight variations. Identical they might be, but to her there was a difference between the easy smile of Ryan and the more serious expression of Gareth. And there was a slight fullness around his face that Ryan lacked.
The twins’ parents were in the milking parlour, washing down from the evening milking. Without stopping their work they called a welcome and promised tea if she would give them five minutes – which turned out to be twenty.
Tea was set out on the huge kitchen table, which was dressed with a spotless white cloth and fine china. Sandwiches, cakes and home-made pickles were offered. Sophie admired it all but guessed this was their usual standard and not a show to impress a visitor. She asked about the pickles and explained about her own, sharing a few ideas with the twins’ rather serious-looking mother, Rachel. It all sounded friendly, but there was an edge, and she had the idea she was being judged and found wanting. Gareth must have told them about her distaste for meat. Like chalk and cheese, moral vegetarians and farmers could hardly be expected to mix.
‘How d’you know our Gareth?’ Tommy Treweather asked. ‘Not much of a social man, neither is Ryan.’
‘Ryan helped me to move my things when I left the cottage called Threeways.’
‘We met in the wood and she mistook me for Ryan,’ Gareth explained, with a smile similar to that of his twin.
‘You lived there? In Fred Yates’s cottage?’ Tommy glanced at his son, a puzzled expression on his weather-beaten face.
Sophie smiled. ‘Yes, I was the person the other farmer told to leave.’
‘Good heavens, I thought you were—’
‘At least eighty?’ she finished for him.
‘What’s she doing here?’ Owen stood in the doorway. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of her.’
Sophie stood, pushing back her chair. ‘I was invited,’ she began anxiously.
‘Stop fussing, Owen, and pour yourself a cup of tea,’ Tommy said, gesturing for her to sit.
‘But what’s she doing here? Living like a tramp she was, trespassing, making a mess of the place.’
Rachel lifted the large teapot and thrust it at him. ‘More hot water, please Owen,’ she said firmly. Turning to Sophie she said, ‘Take no notice of him, bad tempered he is, our Owen, but no real harm in him.’
‘Where is Ryan?’ Sophie asked and when Rachel explained Tommy snorted with obvious disapproval.
‘Gone for an interview. He’s restless. They both are. The war’s been over almost four years and he’s still finding it hard to settle.’
‘Ryan wants to teach,’ Gareth explained, ‘and Mam and Dad don’t want him to leave the farm.’
‘It’s been in the family for about six generations,’ Tommy added gruffly.
‘Long enough,’ Gareth muttered, glaring at his father.
Aware of an unfinished argument, Sophie concentrated on finishing her slice of seed-cake. Owen returned with the replenished teapot and Sophie was left with the idea that there was much more to be said. She was aware of a serious disagreement within the family, with Ryan and Gareth on one side, Rachel and Tommy on the other, she thought curiously, and with Owen watching both sides to see where his best interests lay.
When Sophie left, Gareth walking with her to the lane, Owen turned to his aunt and uncle. ‘Don’t encourage that one,’ he warned. ‘She’d be no use as a farmer’s wife. Soft and frail and I doubt there’ll be a good days work in her.’
‘I agree,’ Tommy said, pushing the plates away for Rachel to clear and opening the evening newspaper. ‘But our Gareth isn’t daft. He’ll see she isn’t the one to marry if he stays on the farm.’
‘If he stays,’ Rachel said sadly.
‘Oh he’ll stay, and so will Ryan,’ Tommy assured her with false conviction. ‘They’re just a bit restless, it’ll pass.’
‘They seem determined to go.’
‘Hush your worrying,’ Tommy warned.
Owen listened and said nothing.
Peter Bevan went to the shop, where his wife, Hope, was sorting out apples, discarding some and polishing others to replenish the window display. The box containing damaged fruit was full.
‘Not enough fat to make pastry,’ she told him after a kiss. ‘It will have to be stewed apples.’ She looked at the large boxful of damaged fruit. ‘Stewed apples for ever, by the look of this pile! I’ll be glad when we get into the season and the fresh British apples come onsale.’
‘If we can find some containers we can give these away. Plenty will be glad of a free treat, even without sugar.’
She carried the worst of the fruit through the shop to the kitchen wastebin while Peter tied the rabbits on a hook beside the shop doorway. ‘Did you know there’s a new tenant in Badgers Brook?’ he asked when she returned with a knife and a pan of water, to which she’d added salt to keep the cut apples from going brown.
‘Stella told me. A young woman on her own, I believe.’
‘I met her as I walked across the fields.’ He laughed. ‘Upset about the rabbits, she was, probably one of those vegetarians. She was going to the farm with Gareth – or Ryan. Never could tell which is which of those two.’
Hope had been the most recent tenant of Badgers Brook and she was curious. ‘D’you think she might like a few apples? According to Stella, this Sophie Daniels makes chutneys and jams.’
‘Be honest, love, it isn’t chutneys you’re thinking about, it’s curiosity. You want to go for a good nose, find out all you can about her.’
‘All right,’ she said with a laugh, ‘I want to go because I’m “nosy”, will you come?’
‘Of course. I’m nosy too.’
Jason, the horse who was no longer needed to pull the cart, lived in a nearby field. On Wednesday they fitted his head harness and rein and, sitting three-year-old Davy astride him, they walked down the lane then tethered him to the gate where he could crop the sweet grass on the wide verge. Lifting the little boy down, and carrying the best of the damaged fruit, they knocked on the door of Badgers Brook with a strange feeling, having been able to walk straight in only a short while ago. Hope had lived there with her first husband, Ralph, and Davy, and built up a dressmaking business after she was widowed.
Knocking on the door of her one-time home brought her no sensation of regret; she and Peter were very happy together, and Ralph a distant and sad memory.
The door opened at once, the welcoming smile widening as Sophie recognized Peter. ‘The man with the rabbits,’ she said, inviting them inside.
‘You’ll no doubt be better pleased with what Hope has brought,’ he said, after introducing his wife.
Sophie was delighted with the fruit, offering to pay, telling them she would make some apple and mint jelly. ‘I’ll save a jar for you,’ she promised. She showed them the jars of produce she had made and remarked on the difficulty of finding enough sugar and empty jars. The jars each had a neat label and a covering of gingham. Peter looked thoughtful.
They didn’t stay long but later Peter delivered a box filled with empty jars of varying sizes. ‘Fill them and I’ll sell them,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘I’d never make enough to supply a shop, but I’ll bear the idea in mind.’
‘A few will do, to start. Come and talk to us when you’re ready.’
Starting a new business was still far from easy, especially when rationed goods were involved. But with perseverance and a polite manner Sophie thought she could persuade people to save their jars for her and even exchange other rationed goods for sugar. She had never used her meat or bacon ration but found it difficult to offer those; it would be condoning the slaughter of animals even though she didn’t eat the meat herself.
It wouldn’t be a proper business but selling to Hope and Peter would be less time consuming than travelling to the market at Macs Hir, and would perhaps prolong the time before she needed to use the money in the bank. Then she admitted she was pretending. There was hardly any money left in the post office account now she had paid rent and bought her few pieces of furniture.
The jars she took to the shop were each capped with a circle of gingham, some red, some blue and a few green. The shop was busy but only Peter was serving.
‘Where’s your wife?’ she asked in a brief lull.
‘Hope has her own business,’ he explained. ‘A dressmaker she is. Go through if you want a word.’ He stared at the jars and added, ‘See what Hope thinks of the idea of using the tops as a sort of trademark. Some material that’s different from the rest. You never know, a real business could develop and you’ll be glad of a recognizable style.’
‘I’d like to talk to both of you,’ she replied.
‘Then if you can wait until one o’clock? I close the shop for lunch then.’
The idea of using her natural skills to try new combinations and sell her own unique recipes was exciting, and perhaps one day she might develop it into a proper business, once rationing finally ended. Meanwhile, she had to find some hours each day to earn money. The rent, the heating and lighting, her daily food, as well as the finances needed to build the business, could never be found out of the small quantities she could make. She had to find work.
Later she went to where the badgers roamed, and sat relaxing with the gentle sounds of the wood surrounding her, going through the possibilities. She had begun to train as a teacher before she had volunteered for the WAAFs. Opening a nursery was a possibility, with more women wanting, and, in many cases, needing, to work, but that didn’t marry very easily with her cooking plans. So much preparation was needed to run a nursery successfully that there would be little time for anything else. And Geoff and Connie might not allow it anyway.
She heard someone moving noisily through the trees and waited until Bertie appeared, dusty, covered with dead leaves and dragging a large branch. ‘Here, miss, look at this, make a few good logs won’t it?’
‘Oi, you!’ Suddenly Owen appeared and chased the boy off, threatening him with the police if he trespassed there again. Sophie went to run after him but Owen stood in her way.
‘Going somewhere?’ Owen Treweather stared at her, a deep, disapproving frown on his brow.
She tried to push past him. ‘How could you speak to a child like that? Frightening him for simply walking through the trees.’
‘He isn’t welcome here and neither are you.’
‘Am I trespassing too?’ she asked. ‘I thought the woods allowed public access.’
‘I don’t like people wandering around. The farm is a dangerous place and too many people wandering about can upset the animals,’ he replied.
‘It’s a pleasant place to sit and daydream,’ she said, hoping to ease him out of his aggression.
‘Better on your own property I think, don’t you?’ He took a step towards her, ushering her towards the edge of the trees.
She rose and without another word walked away, aware of him watching her until she went through the gated fence out on to the field. Below her was the three-cornered cottage that had so recently been her home. If she went this way she had a long walk to get home. Perhaps, if she sat a while, he might leave and allow her to slip back through the wood the way she had come.
As she studied the cottage below her, with its damaged roof and sad, forlorn air, she saw the movement of a ragged curtain and realized there was someone inside. She squeezed her eyes almost closed to try to see if there was a vehicle of some kind in the lane, and spotted, almost hidden by the newly clothed hedgerow, an open-topped van. Although she couldn’t see anyone, she waved her arms.
Footsteps and a rustling of leaves behind her. Owen was not going to leave until she did, so, taking a chance on seeing someone more friendly, she walked down the steep field towards the cottage. The door opened and a man stepped out.
‘Hello, Ryan, are you repairing the place after all?’
‘How d’you know I’m Ryan and not Gareth?’ he asked curiously. ‘Very few people can tell.’
‘A difference about the eyes. Gareth’s eyes are restless. A more relaxed jaw. Little enough, but you are two separate personalities, aren’t you? Identical doesn’t mean everything about you is the same. I don’t know either of you well, but I think you are happier, more content than your brother. And both of you are far happier than Owen!’
‘Would you like a lift back or are you out for a walk?’ he asked, obviously pleased with her comments.
‘I was out for a walk, intending to sit and think about what I’m to do with my life, but your cousin reminded me that once again I was trespassing.’
‘We have to make allowances for Owen. He was hurt and I don’t think he’ll get over it,’ Ryan said. ‘It makes him bad tempered and a bit unreasonable.’
‘Even so there was no need for him to be harsh with a little boy, was there? He sent Bertie running off with threats of police and prison, would you believe?’
‘Sarah is Owen’s wife, but Bertie is not his son.’
Sophie digested this, surprised at the relationship between the sour Owen and Bertie’s sad mother. ‘Poor little boy. Forever in the wrong through no fault of his own.’ She wanted to ask what he felt about a little boy being brought up with no one to care for him except a young mother who had to work. But she didn’t. Instead, she said, ‘About this trespassing: I need to walk through the fields and gather herbs and wild fruits, and mushrooms and flowers. Is there a way I can get permission, so Owen can’t turn me back when I walk through your father’s fields?’
‘Come and ask him. My father, I mean. Come on Sunday afternoon – it’s the only time they take a few hours off between feeding the animals and milking the cows.’
She hesitated. ‘I’m not happy around farms,’ she admitted.
‘Much of it is arable. In fact, we grew a few acres of flowers before the war brought a ban. We have cows and a few steers and sheep and the pigs of course. But it’s the way of the world and I can’t see it ever changing.’
‘It changed for me, after seeing so many people slaughtered for so-called honour and duty. Too much killing. I can’t take any more.’
‘Then you won’t come?’ He stared at her, his brow creased in a frown. ‘Just because you don’t agree with what we do to earn our living?’
This was another turning point. She could walk away and never see him again or face the fact that his life was raising animals to feed a population of meat-eaters. He would go on doing the same whichever decision she made.
‘Thank you,’ she said, lowering her head a little. ‘I’d love to come.’