IT WAS ONLY WHEN she changed trains at Gloucester and got on the two-carriage chugger that her stomach had unclenched. They’d curved round the river where it was as broad as the sea, gulls swooping down on the mud flats as the train had leaned into the turn. Connie pressed back from the window until they’d left the bends behind and nosed their way up the hill.
The trees had been thickening around the railway sidings for a good few minutes now, wrapping the train into the Forest. Connie looked at her hand where it gripped the open window. It was cast again in the amber of autumndiluted leaf-light that she’d stopped noticing until she’d moved up to the city and realised how grey everything was there. She put the other hand up to join it. There! Now she was wearing orangey-brown gloves.
They had slowed right down now, the wheels juddering on the rails. Connie ground her teeth. Was she going to be sick with nerves? That’d be a pretty way to arrive.
Think about something else, Granger. She swallowed hard once, twice, and stuck her head right out of the window, forcing the thought into the breeze. Her hair flapped into her face and she closed her eyes. You didn’t need to see the trees to know this was the forest. She breathed sharply in – there was that furniture polish smell again. God, but she’d missed that. Vi had come in one night, caught Connie sniffing at the tub, and thought she’d gone doolally.
The train jolted to a halt and she almost came a cropper against the side of the window. An old gent behind her reached out and gripped her by the elbow. ‘You all right there, wench?’
There was that Forest of Dean burr, as round and tippy as the tree-covered hills. She beamed and the poor bloke stepped back, doffed his cap and beckoned for her to get off the train before him. His face was a picture. Get a grip. Scaring the locals was the last thing she wanted to do.
But she couldn’t help twisting back and smiling again as she shouldered her bag and stepped onto the station platform. That voice. He sounded like Amos, like Frank. Would Seppe have a hint of that now?
Would Joe?
She plonked down her bag whilst she got her bearings. It was a battered kitbag belonging to some old flame of Vi’s, less of a pain to lug around than her suitcase, especially since it was only half full. She hadn’t told Vi what she was up to, not exactly, just asked for a borrow of the bag to ‘pay a visit to old friends’. Vi’s mind had gone instantly to the gutter like it always did, and this time Connie had been happy to leave it there.
She’d have known this was Cinderford, even without the sign outside the station. It still gave you a shock, seeing all the place names uncovered now that Jerry was no longer a threat. And it wasn’t like it made any difference out here – no stranger would have the first clue how to get through the trees, however many signs went up. She laughed out loud and got a strange look from a woman walking past, dragging a shopping trolley with one hand and a squawking kid in another. Must be the nerves.
Connie strode down the main street and paused at the butcher’s. What should she bring them? She’d saved her coupons specially. God knows they’d been feeding Joe these past months; in that photo that Joyce had sent he was real bonny now. She hugged her arms to her with the excitement of soon getting to pick him up again, see for herself. What if he won’t let me pick him up any more? She hugged herself tighter, squeezing away the thought before it took hold.
But the queue snaked out round the counter and nearly to the door. Someone would see her and get word to Amos – and Seppe – faster than she could say, ‘pound of sausages, please’. She shrugged the kitbag higher and moved on out of the town.
She’d forgotten that the trees made great big arches over the roads. Connie skipped, the kitbag bashing her between the shoulder blades. Good job Vi couldn’t see her now; she’d think she’d fully lost her marbles.
There was a rustle from the side of the road and Connie turned, just caught sight of a white flash of tail bounding away. She’d never been able to keep straight all the different types of deer. Maybe Seppe could teach her – it was the sort of thing he’d have clocked right away.
She was jumping ahead of herself.
Above the treetops a hawk orbited a target only it could see, biding its time. Crows clacked around it, black wings beating. She stopped to watch, her heartbeat matching the crow’s wingbeats, not quite sure who she was rooting for.
The hawk moved in for the kill, its wings back as it plummeted between the treetops, the crows banished.
Connie sharpened her pace.
The road stretched in front of her, long and straight and lined with oaks.