When Sophie stepped out of Ryan’s van at the gate of Badgers Brook, a small figure stood watching her. ‘He’s the farmer bloke, isn’t he?’ he asked.
‘Yes, he kindly gave me a lift home.’
‘Have you got any cakes in your house? Starvin’ I am and Mam’s out.’
Ryan had been watching the boy and he reached into his pocket and handed him a shilling. ‘Buy yourself some chips,’ he said.
Bertie grabbed the shilling and thanked him, then turned to Sophie. ‘I’d rather some of your cakes, miss. The shilling will do for tomorrow, I expect she’ll be out again then.’
‘I haven’t seen you for a while. Does that mean you’re going to school regularly?’
‘Mam said you’re tired of me bothering you, miss, so I thought I might as well go.’ Sophie smiled and waved to Ryan. ‘It seems I have a guest for supper.’
‘Don’t forget Sunday,’ he called as he drove away.
In the kitchen, Bertie dragged a chair towards the sink, climbed up and filled the kettle and placed it on the gas ring ready for her to light. ‘I can light the gas, but Mam says I mustn’t. So I only do it when she’s out.’
Which, Sophie suspected, was most of the time. More than the hours Sarah spent at the factory. She lit the ring and watched as he efficiently set out cups and saucers and plates, then climbed up to the shelf where the cake tin lived. The boy was capable and independent – much more so that a child of his age should be.
‘She has to work, see,’ Bertie explained, pulling an understanding face. ‘That’s why she’s out so much.’
They ate the cakes and Bertie enjoyed several rounds of toast made in front of the fire and covered with home-made apple and ginger jelly. She was careful not to ask too many questions; she didn’t want to stop him coming. The only objection his mother had, of her encouraging him to stay away from school, was not valid, and he did appreciate the food she offered. Hungry and lonely were two adjectives that should never apply to childhood, she thought sadly. But in case of criticism she decided to talk to his mother again.
The evening was closing in and it was an excuse to walk him home. This time he didn’t object, or pretend the ownership of a new bike, but put on his school coat as she prepared to leave. In the hedge outside he struggled with something, which turned out to be his school satchel.
‘Oh, Bertie, what a pity you didn’t show me. Have you any of your work in there?’
‘Only a pattern I painted. Miss Green was going to put it on the wall, but I took it down.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
‘Mam wouldn’t see it there, would she?’ he said, as though it were obvious. Sadness overwhelmed her and caused tears to seep into her eyes. He was probably the only one who didn’t have a parent visiting the school’s exhibition of work.
‘Please, Bertie, can I see it? Or would you like your mother to see it first?’
‘Mam first, miss,’ he replied.
His mother was in and a light shone through the open curtains of the room she rented in Loxton Street. With some hesitation Sophie was invited in.
The room was small and over full. It was as though the move had been accomplished but nothing had been done to make the place into a comfortable home. Although, Sophie conceded, with two people in such a small space, that would have been difficult to achieve even with the best of effort.
Sarah herself looked defeated by life, her expression and the droop of her shoulders showing she had given up trying. Her hair was straggly and in need of washing and a decent cut, her face was shadowed by depression and her voice was low and without energy as she said mournfully, ‘Sorry I can’t offer tea, but the ration’s gone till Friday.’
Sophie didn’t know how to reply: with sympathy? Indifference? Or with an attempt to reassure? Bertie answered for her. ‘Its all right, Mam, miss gave me tea. Toast and homemade jam and cakes. Smashing.’
‘Miss?’ Sarah queried. ‘Are you a teacher then?’
‘No. I might have been but for the war. I gave up before I qualified, and joined the WAAFs.’
‘There’s a vacancy in the school for an assistant. I wish I’d been trained for something.’
‘Bertie, show your mother your painting,’ Sophie coaxed. Bertie pulled out the bright pattern and offered it to his mother, who looked, smiled, said it was lovely and, far too quickly, put it aside. Sophie felt the child’s disappointment even though she didn’t look at him.
There was something defeated about the woman and the drab, cluttered little room that made Sophie want to escape. She made her excuses, received an assurance that Sarah had no objection to Bertie visiting, as long as he attended school, and almost ran from the place.
Sarah didn’t move for a long time after her visitor had left. This room was too dark and too small for her ever to make into a proper home. She couldn’t see a glimmer of hope of an improvement. She’d lost the flat because it had been more than she could afford, and several rooms since because she hadn’t paid the rent regularly and had got into arrears.
What a fool she had been to earn the money at the factory and waste it on going out, treating friends in an attempt to forget her unhappiness for a while and buying clothes she never wore. Feeling sorry for herself and neglecting her son. What a dreadful way to live. It had taken the headmistress at Bertie’s school to remind her that he needed decent shoes.
She looked at Bertie waiting patiently for her to light the gas ring so they could fry the bit of fish she had bought.
‘Bertie, I have to buy you some new shoes,’ she said, and was ashamed then angry when his face lit up. ‘I can’t afford them, we’ll have to do without something else, and you’ll have to make sure not to scrape them. I won’t be able to replace them for a long time. And I’ll have to try and buy some clothing coupons as I don’t have any left. That’s illegal. Costing me a lot of money you are.’
The next afternoon she went and chose new shoes, promising to collect them the following day when she had ‘found my mislaid clothing coupons’.
One of the farm vans passed her and regrets welled up inside her. What a fool she had been, giving up a good life at the Treweathers and ending up in a tatty room without a hope of getting out of it.
A group of cyclists stopped then and asked the way to Clements’ bed and breakfast, and she pointed the way without stopping. Daphne’s next question would have been to enquire about Sophie Daniels, but Sarah hurried on and the chance was gone.
It was few days before Sophie remembered Sarah’s mention of the vacancy at the school. At first she shrugged away the idea. She wasn’t ready for such commitment, and knew that standing up opposite the curious and lively faces of a couple of dozen children would be difficult – but something convinced her she should try.
She made an appointment to see the headmistress, but her interview was brief once she had explained about her aborted training, and the fact that all her papers had been lost in a bombing raid.
The shake of her head as the headmistress listened convinced Sophie that she wasn’t believed. So many families had lost all their papers, so perhaps the excuse had been used by dishonest people and was now automatically met with distrust.
As she stood to leave, she gave the name of the college she had attended together with the dates, and the head agreed to make enquiries. Sophie had the impression she wouldn’t bother.
A week later, at the end of June, a letter came offering her the position, to start in September. Better still, she was invited to work two days a week as a temporary class-assistant until the summer term ended. As a trial, she supposed.
She still lacked confidence in her dealings with other people, and, knowing that Owen Treweather disliked her, she was hesitant about visiting the farm uninvited. But she wanted to share her good news with someone and Ryan was the first person she thought of as she held the letter in her hand.
Picking up her basket, planning to gather from the hedgerows as she went, she headed for the farm. She went through the wood, half afraid of being sent back by Owen, and emerged without mishap at the point where she could see the roof and chimneys of the farmhouse. A tractor was working in a field and she watched for a while as the machine changed the colour of the earth to a rich dark brown. She couldn’t see from there who was driving so she headed down the hill to the house.
Only the twins’ mother was there, making some illegal clotted cream for a special celebration. ‘Mr and Mrs Downy’s thirty-year-old son is coming out of hospital at last, after a terrible accident. After all this time, an unexploded bomb was unearthed in a field near their house. It went off near him and he almost died,’ Rachel explained.
That unkind part of her mind that Sophie tried to deny closed against the joy of the man’s recovery. Not everyone had been given a second chance of life, and that reminder made the pain return.
‘I called to tell Ryan that I have a job,’ she said, trying to push aside her mixed resentment and shame. ‘I’m to be an assistant teacher in the school.’
‘That’s good,’ Rachel said at once. Then her face fell as she said, ‘Teaching is what Ryan wants to do, but his father and I hope he’ll change his mind. If only one of the boys would stay we’d cope, but Ryan wants to teach and Gareth wants to travel. He says the army let him down by keeping him in this country when he’d wanted to see other places. I tell Gareth he’s lucky not to have been sent into the worst of the fighting. He might not have lived to see today.’
‘You didn’t need to be sent into the fighting to lose your tomorrows,’ Sophie said, then quickly turned to go before Rachel asked what she meant. ‘Would you tell Ryan about my job?’
‘As soon as he gets back from town,’ Rachel promised. ‘I’ll tell him about the low wage he could expect as a qualified teacher, too, and the cost of finding a home and everything else, once he leaves the farm where he has everything done for him.’ Oh yes, she’d remind him about the job for which he was prepared to put aside generations of the family’s history. ‘What he needs is a good capable woman who would enjoy the life of a farmer’s wife, then he’d change his mind and stay. It only takes the right woman, and that’s what Tommy and I are hoping for.’
‘It was clear that she was warning me away from Ryan,’ Sophie told Kitty later with a grim smile. ‘That was as close to a reprimand as she can get without actual rudeness. I’ve been well and truly told to stay away.’
Walking to school on that first morning, Sophie was filled with trepidation. This community was pushing her along, forcing her into doing things before she was ready. Anxiety almost overwhelmed her as she faced each difficulty, and she always had an urge to run, as she had in the past. But she slept soundly in Badgers Brook and awoke each morning with her latest fears calmed.
Today she would return to a classroom, an environment she had thought never to see again. There would be strangers, curious people asking questions, expecting answers. Inexplicably she wished Ryan had called, congratulated her on the job and wished her well. She would be feeling more confident if he had. His mother must have told him, yet he hadn’t been near.
Bertie was waiting at the gate. He was dressed in ill-fitting but clean and well-pressed clothes, his face shining from enthusiastic rubbing with a flannel. He carried a creased paper bag, which she presumed carried his lunch.
‘Morning, miss,’ he said gruffly, before turning away. She let him go, understanding that he didn’t want to bring attention to the fact that he knew her. As he walked away from her a boy ran towards him and bumped into him, causing him to stagger. His paper bag fell on to the ground and he picked it up without a word to the boy, who now stood with a group of his friends, watching Bertie’s progress with amusement. Rough play, she thought, nothing more. He was probably too embarrassed by her presence to retaliate.
She spent the morning assisting where she could, enjoying the environment with the enthusiastic six-year-olds and concentrating on learning their names. At play time she was asked to stay in the yard and ‘keep an eye’.
She saw Bertie knocked over by the same boy who had pushed him before school, and ran across to him. Bertie refused her help, rubbing his bloodied knee with a dirty handkerchief. She didn’t insist, although she did ask one of the teachers to look at it.
Dinner time was an opportunity to visit the shops. She was coming out of the bakery with a lunchtime snack when she almost bumped into Ryan, avoiding him by staggering against the shop window.
‘Oh,’ she said with a laugh, ‘this is worse than the playground.’
‘The playground?’ he asked.
‘I started working in the school this morning,’ she explained. ‘Didn’t your mother tell you?’
‘No, I expect she forgot. We’re very busy just now.’
‘I went to the farm as soon as I got the letter. I took it to show you, but you weren’t in.’
‘I didn’t know you were a teacher.’
‘I’m not, quite. I gave up before the final exam when I decided to help the war effort. I was in the WAAFs for a couple of years.’
‘I’ve applied for a place in college for October but I haven’t heard yet.’
‘Good luck,’ she said warmly, but a part of her was disappointed at the thought of him going away. They were hardly close, especially since Rachel’s lecture on her unsuitability, but he had played a part in her decision to settle in Cwm Derw, and she felt let down that he was leaving before she felt safe and secure.
She went back into the shop with Ryan so he could buy some lunch, and they sat together in the small park in the centre of the town to eat.
They were walking out when Bertie ran past, his face red with the effort, his socks around his ankles, bruises and dried blood on his skinny legs. Sophie wanted to follow him, but she had to get back to school. ‘I’ll talk to him there,’ she said anxiously.
Bertie didn’t attend school that afternoon. She learned that there had been another incident in the playground and he’d been upset, but had refused to explain what had happened. It was obvious he was being bullied.
When school ended Sophie stared out at the group of parents waiting to collect their children and she panicked. She couldn’t walk through them; it had been difficult enough coping with the few staff and the children – but this! She hadn’t thought of the curious faces all watching her or whispering together, sharing the little they knew about her. She turned away and escaped through the back entrance across the playing field. Ryan was waiting in the van, and, catching sight of her at the gate, he drove round and offered her a lift.
He saw at once that she was tearful but didn’t comment. He chatted casually to fill the silence and allowed her to recover.
‘I’m not going home,’ she told him eventually. ‘I want to talk to Bertie.’
They found him on the street near his one-roomed home, sitting on the curb, throwing stones down a drain. He wore his old shoes, which lacked laces. ‘They call me bastard,’ he said after much persuasion.
‘D’you know what that means?’ Sophie asked.
‘No, but I know it’s something horrible from the way they say it.’
‘It might be, but it doesn’t apply to you, so try and ignore it.’
He looked up the street and stood up. ‘Mam’s coming, she’ll yell at me for missing school again.’
Sarah Grange came closer and, to Sophie’s surprise, Ryan moved away and got into the van. Sarah began to run, shouting, ‘You might well hide, Ryan Treweather. Coward that you are. Get away from us. Leave the boy alone!’ She reached the van and hit it with the umbrella she carried, then turned to Sophie. ‘You too. Stay away from us, d’you hear? Bertie’s nothing to do with any of you.’ She grabbed the frightened boy by his lapel and half dragged him into the house, slamming the door behind them then drawing the curtains. They heard her shouting, then all went quiet.
‘D’you think he’s all right? What on earth was that about? Do you know her?’
‘Of course I know her. It’s so long since I saw her I just didn’t know Bertie was her son.’ His voice was low, and he looked startled.
Sophie waited beside the van, looking at his shocked face through the driver’s window, waiting for an explanation.
‘Get in and I’ll tell you the full unhappy story,’ he said.
He drove to the lane near the cottage where she had once lived and stopped the engine. ‘We lived here, in the farmhouse, when Gareth and I were small. Then, when the new house was built, Owen lived here with his wife. During the war he went away for three months to train landgirls in some of the skills needed for farm work, although most of them just arrived at the farms and learned on the job.’
Sophie waited patiently for the threads of the story to connect with Sarah and Bertie.
‘His wife had a child and it was absolutely without doubt that he wasn’t the father. Dates didn’t add up, you see. She left, but in fairness to Owen I don’t think he forced her to. She found herself a flat. Apart from a minimum payment paid monthly, he’s had nothing at all to do with her since.’
‘So Bertie is legally his son?’
‘Well, legally I suppose, but not in fact. Sarah had a fling, an affair, call it what you will, and Bertie was the result. She might have convinced Owen that stories about her having an affair were untrue, nothing more than rumours invented by unkind neighbours, but Bertie arrived, flesh and blood, something that couldn’t be hidden or denied.’
‘But didn’t he try to help the child? Didn’t your parents offer help? Bertie isn’t the guilty one, he doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him. Didn’t Owen feel at least a moral obligation? “Better or worse, sickness and in health?” That sort of thing?’
‘When you’re part of a family that can look back over several hundred years…’ He smiled deprecatingly. ‘I know this sounds pompous but to my parents it’s a bit like royalty, the pride in the name and the strength of the traditions. They don’t feel able to accept someone who bears the name but not the true inheritance.’
‘Come on, Ryan! A history going back a couple of hundred years? It must have happened many times before.’
Ignoring the interruption he went on, ‘Owen is a member of the family but Bertie is not his son.’
She gave a disapproving groan.
‘Mind you, I sometimes think Owen might have forgiven her if it hadn’t been for pressure from my parents and his love of the farm and its traditions. All my mother says in response to any thought of meeting the little boy is that Bertie is Sarah’s child but not her husband’s.’
‘And you?’ she asked coldly. ‘Is this how you feel too?’
‘I just went along with it. The problem seemed to belong with Owen, not me. If he’d accepted the child then I would have had no difficulty doing the same.’
‘Sarah is not coping well. She’s out much of the time, and Bertie seems to feed himself, with the luxury of chips when someone gives him a shilling,’ she added, a harshness creeping into her voice. ‘He’s unhappy in school, a low achiever, and the fact that he has no father is a gift to bullies.’
‘I should have done something,’ Ryan muttered. ‘You make me feel ashamed. I just followed my parents’ lead and ignored Sarah and her son – whose name, incidentally, I thought was Alfred.’
‘Albert,’ she corrected softly. ‘Named, so he told me, after Queen Victoria’s husband.’ She glanced at him, saw the solemn expression in his dark eyes as he struggled with his thoughts. ‘So what will you do?’
‘Talk to Mam and Dad and Gareth first. Then Owen. There must be something to be done that will make the boy’s life easier, without embarrassing Owen.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, lightly touching his arm.
When he left her outside Badgers Brook he called. ‘Come again next Sunday and we’ll try to involve the family in a discussion.’
‘How can I?’ she said with a light laugh. ‘First your cousin forbidding me to walk through the fields and now you mother telling me to stay away in case I’m a bad influence on you!’
‘What?’
She ran up the path and into the house before he demanded an explanation. Let him sort it out. After all, Rachel was his mother.
A couple of hours later she was preparing a bowl of wild raspberries she had found near the edge of the wood when there was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ she called, reaching for a tea towel to wipe her sticky fingers. It was Owen. His words were precise and brief.
‘Keep out of things that don’t concern you.’
‘But Bertie does concern me,’ she replied quickly, before he could close the door. ‘A child brought into the world to be despised and deprived of a normal childhood – how could anyone not be concerned? Every child has a right to be happy.’
‘In a perfect world, yes. But when people don’t follow the rules of decency others get hurt and there’s nothing anyone can do about it!’
She took a deep breath but he was gone before she could continue to argue. She looked out of the kitchen window and saw him hurrying down the path to the lane, the stiffness of his gait showing his anger.
By interfering she had probably made things worse, she surmised sadly. This was confirmed later, when she knocked on the door of Sarah’s sad little room and was told loudly to, ‘Please, go away!’
A few days later, during which time she had seen nothing of Bertie either at school or at Badgers Brook, she went around again and pushed a note through the door. On it she asked Sarah to please call, promising only to listen, so between them they might work out a way of helping Bertie. She repeated her words on a second note, to Ryan, to which she added a postscript: Every child has a right to be happy.
The following Saturday morning a knock heralded Sarah’s arrival, and Sophie invited her inside and lit the gas under the kettle. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘Isn’t Bertie with you?’
‘He’s outside but won’t come in.’
‘Then will you take a few biscuits? He can eat them outside, boys of that age are always hungry, aren’t they?’
Obediently Sarah took the proffered plate and went out to call her son, who took the honey and lemon biscuits and sat on the step to eat them.
‘What’s all this to do with you?’ Sarah demanded. ‘Five minutes you’ve been here and there you are, trying to solve everyone’s problems—’
‘The truth is, I’m trying to solve my own.’
‘What are you talking about?’ The anger was still there, but Sarah looked at her with curiosity.
‘I had a bad war, and I found it difficult to settle. Coming here, finding this place calmed me. It seemed to offer a friendly community that would help me to heal. It’s worked better than I’d hoped, and here I am, “only five minutes in the place”, and working at the school, making friends and… getting into trouble.’ She smiled then, and she saw the young woman relax, the stiffness leaving her face. ‘So now,’ she added, ‘I have to find a way of putting right my stupid mistakes.’
‘Not stupid, you just didn’t have all the facts.’
‘Will you tell me, so I don’t rush in like a fool again?’
‘There’s nothing to add to what Ryan told you. I was married to Owen and I had a child.’
‘It can’t be that simple. Did you love him, this other man? Did he walk away from your predicament?’
‘I sent him away, when I realized my mistake. It was Owen I loved. Believe it or not I still do. The other man was only an adventure, a stupid, childish need for danger and illicit fun. It was only later that I realized I was carrying his child, and then it was too late.’ She looked towards the door, checking Bertie wasn’t there, and added quietly, ‘I did think of getting rid of him, but I couldn’t, even though it would have saved me all this misery. I love him, even though I don’t always show it.’
Sophie heard the kettle spitting angrily, demanding to be attended to, but she didn’t dare look away from Sarah, knowing there was more to come.
‘I refused to see Owen when he came back after the three months, and I left the old farmhouse and found a rather nice flat – which I quickly realized I couldn’t afford. I didn’t give him a chance to understand or forgive as he might have done. He’s basically a decent and kindly man. We were married, and there would have been no gossip. I thought my parents would help me, but they were unsympathetic, insisting I went back to Owen, even after I told them about the baby. So, here I am, struggling to survive and making a poor showing of it. Poor Bertie, he doesn’t deserve the life I give him.’ She stood up, turned off the gas and poured the boiling water into the pot. ‘The saddest thing of all is that Owen might have accepted the child, even knowing it wasn’t his. He wanted a son so badly, and I’ve even deprived him of that.’
It was no wonder, Sophie mused, that the man was so ill tempered.
‘I promised Bertie new shoes a week ago – even chose them and asked the shop to keep them – but by the time I’d bought some extra coupons I didn’t have enough money. I owe a few pounds, you see, and have to pay it back a little each week. Oh, what a mess.’
‘I’m good at managing on very little,’ Sophie said quietly. ‘Will you let me help you?’
‘No, I’m almost clear now, just a few pounds to the coalman and the grocer. I’ll be able to get the new shoes very soon.’
Betty Connors stood at the door of the Ship and Compass, staring along the road and hoping for a sight of her brother. He was late and there were bottles needing to be brought up from the cellar and a barrel to tap if she wasn’t to run out before closing time. Eddie was becoming more and more unreliable these days and she began to wonder if one day he’d forget about his work completely.
With less than an hour to go before opening time, she closed the door behind her and went to the house where Elsie lived. She had never called there before asking if her brother was there and the idea embarrassed her, but she had to have help; she couldn’t manage the cellar work and Ed knew this. She heard voices and laughter from inside and imagined him sitting there without a care, while she was frantic to get ready for opening. Irritation made her knock on Elsie’s door more loudly than intended.
A second knock was necessary before she heard the sound of someone coming, and she stepped back, trying to decide what to say.
‘Betty!’ Ed said, surprise and embarrassment written on his face. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you, of course!’
‘You haven’t the right, banging on the door like a debt collector! People will talk and—’
‘How d’you think I’m going to get the pub ready? We’re opening in less than an hour.’
‘I’m just coming, but don’t knock at the front door again, Elsie doesn’t like it.’
‘Elsie doesn’t like it? Pity for her!’ she snapped and turned to walk back down the road to the pub, where already Mr Francis and a couple of others were leaning on the wall, patiently waiting for opening time.
She was relieved when Ed followed a few minutes later but irritated when he avoided speaking to her. ‘It’s you who let me down, so why am I having the dirty looks?’ she demanded.
‘Elsie’s a respectable widow and she doesn’t want people gossiping. You knocking at the door like that, hauling me out like an intruder.’
‘Plenty of people are already gossiping, mainly because of you sneaking in the back way instead of using the front door,’ she hissed in reply. She knew things were more likely to get worse than better and wondered what to do about it. The pub was hers but Ed had helped her ever since she’d been widowed many years before, and she didn’t know how she’d cope if the argument developed into an estrangement. She also knew they couldn’t carry on like this.
On Sunday afternoon Sophie was hesitant about visiting the Treweathers’ farm. The situation with Bertie and Sarah was making her uncomfortable. Rachel’s attitude hadn’t helped, either. The thought of seeing Ryan decided her. To confirm her decision, Gareth called for her, and, failing cheerfully in his attempt to convince her he was Ryan, explained that his brother had been delayed.
To her relief there were others in the big living room beside the family. She heard the buzz of lively conversation before she opened the door.
Geoff and Connie were there, with Stella and Colin from the post office, Kitty and Bob Jennings, and a few others unknown to her.
Rachel greeted her and introduced her to the others. ‘Betty Connors from the Ship and Compass, enjoying a little relaxation on her day off,’ was the first.
‘Between cleaning and doing the books and making out the orders,’ Betty added with a smile, ‘and we’re already friends. Are you settling in at Badgers Brook?’
‘I couldn’t be happier,’ Sophie replied. ‘I’ve already made some good friends and I feel that the house welcomes me every time I return.’ She moved closer and whispered, ‘Is this a party?’
The reason for the gathering was the wedding anniversary of Rachel and Tommy. Ryan and Gareth had also invited some friends. A few cards stood on the table near the window and Sophie was relieved that she had brought with her a small gift.
‘I didn’t know this was a special occasion,’ she said, ‘but I brought you this.’ She handed Rachel a jar of crab-apple jelly, ruby red and glowing like a jewel as she held it up to the light. ‘Last year’s, but I’m sure it will be all right,’ she added.
She accepted a drink of cider and sipped it warily; it tasted very strong, not the sweet variety she had expected. Looking around the crowded room she was surprised not to see Owen. Perhaps, being a farm, there was work to be done, and there were few hours during which they could be idle.
‘Will you come and help me carry in another tray of sandwiches?’ Rachel asked, and Sophie thankfully put down the drink with which she had been struggling and followed her into the kitchen.
‘Congratulations, Mrs Treweather,’ Sophie said, picking up a tray and removing the white tea towel covering its contents. ‘Thirty years married and working together is something to celebrate, isn’t it?’
‘Not everyone is so fortunate,’ Rachel replied, staring at her as though there was more to say. Sophie rested the tray on a corner of the table and waited apprehensively. ‘Owen, for instance.’
‘I’m sorry about Bertie, but I had no idea that he was related to Owen. I didn’t mean to interfere.’
‘I know, but I think it best if you stay away from him, in fact, better you stay clear from all the Treweather family.’
‘But… surely we can remain friends?’
‘All right, I’ll be honest with you. Tommy and I need for the boys to stay here, working the farm, carrying on from us one day. You aren’t farmer’s wife material, and if Ryan marries someone like you he’ll leave. As I told you before, we think that if he marries the right person, someone strong, hard-working and determined, there’s a chance of us getting our wish. Owen married the wrong girl and see where that ended.’
Sophie’s face was rosy with shock and embarrassment. ‘I don’t know why you’re saying this. I’ve seen Ryan about half a dozen times, and I’ve only lived in Cwm Derw since April! Less than three months, and not a hint of anything more than friendliness between us. So don’t be afraid of me, Mrs Treweather. I have no desire to marry anyone and certainly not a farmer. Rearing animals for slaughter is something I’d never cope with. Never.’ She put the tray more firmly on to the table and, without waiting to find her coat, ran from the house.
It was raining, fine, warm summer rain, but she was unaware of it as she ran up the hill towards the wood. Panting with the effort, sobs interfering with her breathing as she ran, she stood and leaned against the smooth trunk of a beech and allowed her breath to return to normal. Then, more slowly, she walked on, across the stream and into the lane. Parked outside the house was a muddy van. Ryan had come to find her.
‘Why did you run off in such a hurry?’ he asked as he got out of the van, carrying her coat and basket.
‘Your mother made it clear that I was unwelcome at a gathering of friends,’ she said, snatching her belongings. ‘Now please excuse me but I have some art work to prepare for school tomorrow.’
Ignoring her words he followed her to the door and into the kitchen. He said nothing, just watching her as she coaxed the fire into life by lifting the coals with a poker then filled the kettle and slammed it on to the gas stove, her every movement an indication of her anger. She pointedly put out one cup and saucer, but he reached up and took down a second.
‘And the cider tasted disgusting!’ she said at last and heard him chuckle.
‘I don’t know what Mam said to you, but you were there as my guest and I’m very sorry if you weren’t made welcome. I couldn’t call for you as I had to collect a couple of ancient aunts and then I was busy topping up drinks. I’m afraid I didn’t give you the attention I should. I forgot many of the guests would be strangers.’
‘I knew a few,’ she admitted. ‘And I was enjoying it once I got talking to a few people, but your mother made it clear I shouldn’t be there. So I left.’
‘Without finishing your cider?’ he teased. The kettle boiled and she filled the teapot. ‘I’m sorry, I really am,’ he said, turning her to face him.
‘All right, it wasn’t your fault. It was a nice idea – arranging the afternoon for your parents, and inviting me, although you might have told me it was a celebration!’
He held up in arms in mock surrender. Then reached out and pulled her gently towards him. Without hesitation she relaxed against him and they didn’t move for a while, each afraid of what might happen next. He sensed the need for caution, knowing he could harm a growing affection if he rushed her, so he eased away, touched the side of her forehead with his lips. Shyness made her say foolishly, ‘I think our tea is getting cold.’
‘Still better than Dad’s cider, eh?’
He didn’t stay long. They were both edgy, aware of each other, knowing that things would never go back to how they had been, and wondering where their growing feelings for each other would take them.
Sophie knew she could never cope with the killings on a farm, no matter how valuable and essential that way of life might be. Ryan was kind and gentle, and she knew there might come a day when she could entrust her future to him with utter confidence, but not now, while he worked on the family farm. But if she became involved, seriously involved, at a time when he was considering leaving the farm and behind him, would he one day regret it? Or even go back, expecting her to go with him?
As on so many previous occasions over the past four years she had the impulse to run away, move on before she became strangled with confusion. She felt an attraction for Ryan as she had for no other man; even her love for Geoffrey had had a desperation about it: there had been a need for comfort and the promise of a future during those awful days. But she had to consider Ryan’s circumstances.
She stood up and walked around the large kitchen. What was she thinking of? They had only ever spent a few hours together, and touching her forehead with his lips wasn’t a kiss, so why was she galloping so far ahead?
Stella and Colin called an hour later, followed by Kitty and Bob. ‘Worried we were,’ Stella told her. ‘One minute you were there pretending to drink that strong cider and the next you were gone.’
‘Thought it had done for you!’ Colin said with a chuckle. ‘Two barrels every year Tommy buys, thrives on the stuff. I don’t mind a drop or two myself, mind.’
The last visitor that day was Betty Connors, but she didn’t stay, seeming satisfied when she saw that Sophie was unharmed. ‘Call and have a cup of tea one afternoon,’ she called as she walked back down the path to the lane. ‘Usually there after lunchtime closing.’
Sophie stacked the dishes from her visitors and went out for a walk. She needed to clear her head, and that was nothing to do with the cider. She had to admit to herself that the thought of marrying Ryan, of spending the rest of her life with him, had been occupying her thoughts all afternoon, but she had to stop herself thinking about him as though they were more than friends. Anything else would lead to disappointment, and she’d had enough of that. ‘Not even casual friends,’ she reminded herself, muttering the words aloud. ‘Strangers we are and nothing more.’
Betty went home and planned a quiet hour listening to the wireless. She went in and changed into more comfortable clothes and settled in her favourite chair. Ed would be in later for his supper but there was an hour or so before she need worry. She picked up the Sunday papers and began to read. Sundays were the only days when the place wasn’t open, but she would still be busy with all the things she couldn’t do during the week. Having the invitation to the Treweathers’ tea party had decided her to take the whole day off.
She heard the back door open and guessed it was Ed. He was early. Damn, now she’d have to get up and make him tea. He usually stayed at Elsie Clements’ place till seven.
‘Betty?’ he called, then came in and, with an outstretched arm, gestured for her to remain seated. ‘I have something to tell you,’ he said, and she sat up straight; it sounded serious.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. In fact, everything’s right. The fact is, Elsie and I want to get married, and I’ll be going to live there. She has a few rooms she rents out from time to time and she’ll be glad of my help with the maintenance of the house and all that.’
‘Like I’ve been, you mean?’ Betty said, her voice choked with shock. ‘You’re leaving me to cope and going to help Elsie?’
‘We’re getting married,’ he repeated.
‘Congratulations,’ she said, her voice making the word sound like a reprimand. ‘And when is this to be?’
‘End of the month.’
‘What? And how d’you expect me to find someone else in a couple of weeks? Besides, don’t the banns have to be called three times?’
‘They were called in Elsie’s church last Sunday and again today. I’ll still work here for a few weeks, do the usual hours, I just won’t be living here, that’s all. Just till you find someone.’ He spoke quickly, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on the fact that he hadn’t told her earlier. But she did!
‘So you could have told me earlier?’
‘Well, yes, but I found it hard to say the words.’
‘Making it harder for me to find someone!’
‘Sorry, Betty, but it’s a chance for a little happiness, and Elsie’s a fine woman. I’m very lucky, you must see that.’
‘Of course, and I am pleased for you. I just wished I’d been told sooner, that’s all. Bring her here tomorrow evening and we can tell everyone and have a bit of a do.’
‘Thanks, Betty.’
She stood up and hugged him. ‘Good luck, Eddie, I’m sure you’re doing the right thing.’
‘Pity she hasn’t got a brother, eh?’
‘Yes, a man with muscles like Popeye and the temperament of a saint.’
She didn’t sleep much that night, aware of her brother in the next bedroom and imagining living in the old, creaky building completely alone. She had to find someone, and quickly. Common sense meant she needed a man to do all the work Ed had been doing and who’d be willing to live in. Not an easy position to fill. She needed to feel safe, and that wouldn’t be possible with a stranger. Her mind sifted through the possibilities and rejected them all.
As the weather grew warmer still, visitors passed through the town on their way to the local beaches or quiet countryside. A short while after Ed’s announcement, three young women stopped and parked their vehicles not far from the post office, looking around them for a likely place to eat.
The sight of the café with its crowded tables seemed hopeful, and they went inside but groaned when they saw the queue and how slowly it was moving. One of the women, tall, confident and obviously in charge, loudly demanded of the assistant, ‘Is there a fish and chip shop near?’
‘Gwennie Flint’s, just around the corner,’ she was told, and she and her friends trooped out and followed the direction of the girl’s pointing finger.
They sat on a seat outside the Ship and Compass and ate their meal. As they were finishing, folding the paper and looking around for a rubbish bin, a huge brewer’s delivery lorry arrived and parked nearby. A man got down and knocked on the door, opened it and called, ‘Betty? Ed? I’m parked awkward, can you get a move on?’ While the delivery man began to unload the crates and boxes and roll barrels expertly towards the cellar doors, the three cyclists heard angry voices from inside.
‘Ed, what’s the matter with you? You can’t leave me to deal with a delivery!’
‘I promised and I won’t let her down. She’s got summer visitors arriving and she wants me there to deal with the luggage.’
‘This is ridiculous! You’re responsible for dealing with the deliveries. There is no one else. The woman can wait half an hour, can’t she?’
‘No! “The woman” can’t!’
The three cyclists looked at each other, suppressing smiles as Ed walked out of the door, and, without acknowledging the delivery man’s greeting, walked jauntily off down the road. Betty came to the door and called, ‘Sorry, but you’ll have to just leave it out there. One of my regulars will help me later – I hope.’
‘Come on, girls, let’s see how strong we are.’ The tall girl, who appeared to be in charge, waved to Betty and called, ‘Don’t worry, landlady. WAAF-trained we are, and we’ll help with this. Go and open up the cellar for the barrels and we’ll carry in the rest, won’t we, girls?’
Without waiting for Betty to agree, the tall girl began organizing the delivery. Within less than half an hour the barrels were safely in the cellar and the rest of the crates and boxes were placed where a bemused and grateful Betty directed. When she offered tea and cakes, the tall girl shook her head. ‘A shandy and a sandwich would be better, we’re still hungry after our fish and chips.’ She offered a rather grubby hand. ‘I’m Daphne Boyd and these are Gloria and Frieda.’
It was as they were eating the sandwiches that Daphne mentioned Sophie. She didn’t hold out much hope, having passed that way earlier in the year, but explained her quest to find her friend.
‘We have a newcomer to the village who served in the WAAFs’ she told them, ‘Sophie – er – something, her name is. She’s moved around a lot, living like a tramp sometimes, I understand, but she seems to have settled in Cwm Derw.’
‘Not Sophie Daniels?’ Daphne gasped. And when Betty agreed that was correct, she said, ‘I’ve been searching for her for four years. I’d given up hope of finding her. Close friends we once were, but after demob she just disappeared. I’ve no idea why, so I’d better be careful how I approach her, eh?’ With great excitement she wrote down the address and hoped the name wasn’t just a coincidence. The quiet girl Betty described certainly didn’t sound like the Sophie she had known.
Sophie received very few letters. There was no one in her past who knew where she was living, no one who would bother to write if they had known. So it was with curiosity that she stared at the hand-written envelope that had been pushed through the letter box. She picked it up and studied it, trying to identify the writing, but the rather flamboyant style mystified her. Large, bold and with letters generously flourished with loops and fancy tails. She opened it, took out the good-quality paper and gasped with surprise. Daphne Boyd! How on earth had she managed to find her?
To get this unexpected reminder of her past was exciting but also alarming. She had thought she was safe from anyone she had known finding her. Again there was the almost overwhelming impulse to run away and find somewhere else to hide.
To meet, as Daphne suggested in her note, would mean talking about all that had happened, and that was never going to be easy, however long she delayed. Daphne would be a difficult person to discourage from asking questions. She wasn’t the type to take a hint! Perhaps this was another example of how life was pushing her along, forcing her to take strides towards the day she finally opened up and faced the trauma. She sat down and replied straight away, and posted the letter on the way to school before she could change her mind and throw Daphne’s letter on to the fire.
They had been such close friends before duties had separated them. Daphne would have been her bridesmaid if her wedding had gone ahead. She must have wondered why she hadn’t kept in touch.
A second letter came from Daphne explaining how she had found Sophie, and asking if she might visit her. A week later they met, Daphne – to Sophie’s alarm – arriving with a small suitcase and a request to stay for a few days. ‘While I cool off,’ she said in her loud, confident voice. ‘If I don’t get away from home soon, I’ll go crazy.’
Everything about Daphne was large. She was almost six feet tall and was no beanpole. She did everything at breakneck speed and spoke loudly without worrying about anyone hearing her, even when she was criticizing someone for being in her way, or being slow doing whatever she had asked. Shop assistants, bus passengers, pedestrians on the crowded pavements – she bustled them along, but in a good-natured way that had them smiling rather than taking offence.
After a brief stay to drink tea and eat a sandwich, she wanted to explore. Striding along, with Sophie giving an occasional hop to keep up, they went to the main road to inspect the shops and cafe. ‘To the post office first,’ Daphne said, pushing people aside as she entered the small, crowded shop. ‘Keep my place in the queue while I choose a card to send to Mam and Dad.’ Ignoring the curious and amused glances, she kept up a running commentary on the card before selecting one of the park. ‘You’ll have to take me there, Sophie. I must see the place before I send this or it’ll be a cheat,’ she announced.
‘Where d’you find this one?’ Stella asked with a sideways nod towards Daphne, as Sophie reached the counter and bought a couple of stamps.
‘A friend from long ago,’ Sophie replied. ‘Daphne Boyd, meet Stella Jones.’
‘Bring her to have tea in my country cottage,’ Stella invited. ‘You know how to find it. I’ll be there on Wednesday.’
They walked around, stopping occasionally when Sophie met someone she knew and Daphne insisted on being introduced, then Sophie suggested tea in the café. Daphne pointed to the Ship and Compass. ‘Pity the pub isn’t open, I could do with something stronger than tea, couldn’t you?’
‘I have some elderflower champagne at home,’ Sophie offered.
‘Sounds good to me.’
After they had eaten, and Sophie planned to settle down to read or listen to the wireless, Daphne jumped up, dealt efficiently with the dishes and announced that they would go for a stroll, which meant something different from Sophie’s idea of wandering through the wood. Daphne walked briskly along the lanes and roads, asking questions, getting her bearings, working out a different way home from the one Sophie suggested and getting it right.
At her suggestion they explored the allotments to find Stella and Colin’s country cottage. Daphne discovered it to be a very well-kept and elaborately painted garden shed. Through the shiny windows they saw it was furnished and had a paraffin stove and a kettle. ‘All ready for making tea.’ Daphne laughed her rather loud laugh and said, ‘I can’t wait for Wednesday.’
By bed time Sophie was exhausted. Being alone for most of the time, visitors tired her – the conversation, the feeling of being on duty and not being free to relax and do what she wanted was even harder with the energetic Daphne. Had they really been such friends? If so, which of them had changed? Had she really shared the enthusiasm of this strong character? She must have, so it was she who had changed, the four years alone had taken away her spirit, left her weary and empty. Perhaps a short visit from Daphne was exactly what she needed. If she survived it!