Freddie peeled off the woollen balaclava Annie had knitted him, and let the unfamiliar salty breeze stream through his hair. The weather was uncannily bright for late November, the hills a sharp blade of indigo, the last leaves of the elm trees along the shore a lurid yellow. The waters of the Severn Estuary glittered ferociously, the fast tide surging up the middle.
When he saw the sunlight on the water Freddie remembered Kate’s vivid description of the sea. He took the black velvet box out of his inner pocket and opened it to steal a glimpse of the diamond ring he had bought for her. Exposing it to the salt wind and the light seemed a romantic thing to do and the strobes of crystal light from the diamond satisfied Freddie. Imagining her face when she saw it gave him immense pleasure. He’d spent all his money on it, after buying the motorbike, but Kate was worth every penny. It was odd that she hadn’t responded to his letters telling her about the stone angel and the motorbike, but he’d decided to go anyway. Especially when Herbie had made him listen to the weather forecast on his crackly radio.
‘You go now, lad – before those storms come in,’ he’d warned. ‘You don’t want to be stuck on top of the Mendips in the snow, do you?’
Freddie had been in a dinghy a few times across the winter floods on the Levels, but to him this Severn ferry boat was awesome. The throb of its engine under his boots, the ageing, sea-soaked timber, the fat ropes, the rusting cabin. He was unprepared for the savage power of the tide, the way it swept the heavy boat sideways as if it were a bobbing walnut shell. Used to listening to the sound of an engine, he could hear this one labouring against the current and sense the tension of the boat’s structure. Looking at the other passengers, he was reassured to see that nobody seemed worried. People were laughing and talking while he had been holding his breath.
Safe on the other side, he paused on the jetty to study his map and rearrange his clothing. He would have liked to sit and watch the flocks of geese dipping and swerving over the river, their barking cries like a cantata on the wind. But it was too cold to keep still. He pulled his mud-caked balaclava over his head, glad that it covered most of his face. His goggles were mud-spattered too, from the rough ride over the Mendips, through Bristol, and down to the estuary, and he thought his face would be covered in mud too. Kate would think that very funny, but he wouldn’t mind. Just to hear her laugh again would feed his soul. He buttoned the thick leather jacket Herbie had lent him, cleaned the goggles and put them on, and set off, glad to feel in control again. The satisfying roar of his bike cut a path through the rainswept silence as he headed for Lynesend.
Ahead of him the wooded hills of the Forest of Dean were bulked against the sky, appearing and disappearing through the masses of low rain-bearing cloud. The north wind whooshed in his ears, barbs of sleet stung his cheeks. Soon his hands and feet were numb, his knees and elbows ached, and he could feel his cold lips cracking. Determined to reach Lynesend before the weather closed in, he pushed on, the motorbike bouncing and splashing over the puddled road. He thought longingly of Kate’s family, the warm kitchen and the cups of cocoa Sally used to give him with a dollop of scalded cream on the top, and sometimes Kate would wink at him and add a dash of rum. The memory of her smile illuminated his journey along the shores of the Severn, and the feel of the little velvet box in his pocket kept him going. The anticipation of seeing her again burned in his heart like a lantern.
He turned east, following the road inland, the sleet flying sideways out of the dark sky. No one was on the road except him, no horses and carts, or motorcars, and the villages he rode through were deserted, the cottage chimneys smoking as if people were huddled inside sheltering from the icy weather. He paused once to look at a signpost and clean the mud from his goggles. His feet were two blocks of solid ice, his hands and wrists ached and the breath wheezed in his chest.
Annie had given him a small leather case with a tot of brandy in a silver bottle. Freddie disliked the medicinal taste of brandy but a good swig brought a welcome glow of heat into his throat. Exhausted, he pressed on, through the mud and the cold, and at last he came to the place Kate had described in her letter. A sign saying ‘PRIVATE ROAD’, and a narrow lane alongside the canal. Food, and shelter – and Kate – were not far away now.
Enormous barges were moored on the canal, laden with the biggest logs Freddie had ever seen. Fascinated, he lost concentration and when he looked back at the lane it had curved sharply to the left. He braked, skidded and revved the bike, just managing to steer it round the corner, and right in front of him two tall racehorses loomed out of the mist.
Annie bristled when she saw Joan Jarvis come mincing into the shop. At closing time she was tired from a day of worrying about Freddie. Why had he insisted on going off on that dreadful motorbike?
A new bakery had opened in Monterose and gradually Annie’s regular customers were choosing to go there instead of climbing the hill to Barcussy’s Bakery. The new bakery had a motor van for their delivery round, with smart lettering on the side. Annie knew she couldn’t compete, especially without Freddie’s input. Every day there was bread left on the shelves, wasted, and soon she could no longer afford to employ Gladys. She kept the shop open for mornings only, and spent her afternoons sleeping, knitting or pottering in the garden, battling the depression and the fear which had intensified since Levi’s death. In the afternoons she needed to hide from the world.
So the last person she wanted to see was Joan with her nauseating fox fur dangling, her scarlet nails and her intimidating confidence.
‘Yes. What would you like?’ Annie asked, her eyes suspicious.
‘I don’t want any bread. I came to see the stone angel.’ Joan smiled disarmingly right into Annie’s defences.
‘Wait a minute. I’ll close the shop.’ Annie locked the door and turned the sign to CLOSED. She led Joan through the scullery and into the garden.
‘Oh, my dear! Look at your chrysanthemums.’ Joan stopped by the flowerbed along the sunny wall. ‘Aren’t they beautiful? You must have green fingers.’
Annie thawed a little. ‘People say I have.’
When Joan saw the stone angel she gasped and flung her arms in the air, her painted mouth opened wide showing two yellowy front teeth crossed over each other.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said in a whisper, her eyes turning to look at Annie. ‘Freddie did this?’
Annie smiled, puffed up with pride.
‘Ah. He did. And he’s never had no training. ’Tis just a gift.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ Joan sidled round the stone angel, looking at it from all angles. ‘Isn’t she beautiful? Perfect, just perfect. And the patience! Freddie is a remarkable young man. You must be so proud, Annie – may I call you Annie?’
‘Yes, of course. And yes, I am proud of Freddie.’ Annie’s eyes glistened. Hesitantly she glanced into Joan’s eyes and found them unexpectedly warm and friendly.
‘But isn’t this exciting?’ Joan placed a manicured hand on the stone angel’s head. ‘And the face! It’s exquisite. Did he have a model for it?’
‘He didn’t say.’ Annie didn’t want to tell Joan about Kate Loxley.
Joan pursed her lips and stood gazing raptly at the stone angel as if it was a newborn baby. Annie watched her, suddenly aware of the bright aura of light that surrounded Joan. Seeing it brought Annie’s own gift, long suppressed, to life, like a treasure discovered in an attic. She allowed it for a few guilty moments, then rearranged herself, smoothing her apron and twisting her wedding ring round and round her finger.
‘Has anyone seen the angel yet?’ Joan asked.
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Annie, if you don’t mind. I’m going to tell the vicar. He ought to see it, don’t you think?’
‘Could do.’