‘Annie, he’s looking for someone to do a statue of St Peter for the church porch. The church has some money set aside for it.’ Joan’s words jingled with such enthusiasm that Annie could hardly follow.
‘And – is Freddie going to do more carvings? He’s got all this stone.’
‘Oh yes. He’s got plenty of ideas.’
‘Then I shall give him a commission.’
Annie looked bewildered. ‘What’s that?’
‘A job. A stone carving job. I want two majestic eagles on our gateposts. My husband would love them. We’ll pay him of course. Is Freddie here?’
‘No. He’s gone off today on his motorbike. I hate the thing.’
Joan hardly seemed to hear her. ‘I’m going to see the vicar right now,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. She slid her hands into a pair of fox fur gloves, and smiled caringly at Annie. ‘It’s only down the road. Why don’t you come with me?’
A suffocating silence crept over Annie. Instead of looking at Joan’s bright encouraging eyes, she looked down at the floor, her eyes clouded with shame.
‘I—’ She was going to say ‘can’t’ but the word froze in her throat. A person with Joan’s energy and fire was not going to accept ‘can’t’, that was obvious to Annie, so she said, ‘I won’t, not just now.’
Joan cocked her head sympathetically as if she sensed a problem. Annie could see the question hovering and she braced herself, but Joan just gave her a little pat on the shoulder.
‘Perhaps another day,’ she said. ‘But I’ll go anyway. Thank you, Annie, for showing me Freddie’s work – and your lovely flowers. I’ll come and see you tomorrow. Bye now.’
‘Bye.’
Annie showed her out, and watched her skittering down the road towards the vicarage.
‘She knows,’ Annie thought desperately. ‘She knows.’
Ian Tillerman looked down from the lofty height of his dappled grey racehorse at the mud-spattered stranger on his motorbike.
‘Turn the engine off, will you please?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you know horses are frightened of motorbikes?’
Ian Tillerman’s horse didn’t look bothered by the motorbike, but the other horse, a bay, had wheeled around and bolted back down the road, its rider clinging on, its hooves clattering on the stony surface.
Freddie sighed and begrudgingly turned off the engine. Plastered in mud, he sat back astride the bike and tried to bend his frozen fingers. He realised he must have looked a sight in the black balaclava and goggles stuck to his face with mud. He eyed Ian Tillerman through the mud-splashed lenses and waited silently.
‘I gotta go on my way,’ said Freddie.
‘Oh, no you don’t.’ Ian Tillerman got down from his horse and confronted Freddie, his face an ugly brick red. ‘You’ve no business riding that damned motorbike down here. This is a private road. Can’t you read?’ He didn’t wait for Freddie to reply but ranted on, flicking his whip as he talked. ‘That’s a valuable racehorse, can’t you see that? She could break a leg galloping on the road like that. God knows what’s going to happen, and if there’s an accident I shall be suing you – whoever you are.’ He moved closer, his arms looped through the reins of the grey horse who stood watching the bay one still galloping in the distance. He put his red face close to Freddie and sniffed like a dog. ‘I thought so. Alcohol. You’ve been drinking. You’ve no business riding a motorbike in that state. Drunken bloody lout.’
Freddie was reminded of the times Levi had lost his temper. He knew it was no good trying to stop him, the explosion would go on until all the storm had been released. So Freddie hunkered down and let him rant, feeling nothing but contempt.
‘Who the hell are you, anyway? Where’ve you come from? Eh? Answer me.’
‘Now you listen to me,’ said Freddie calmly, looking Ian Tillerman in the eye. ‘I got a right and a reason to be here, and I don’t have to tell you who I am. Who are you, anyway?’
‘I’m Ian Tillerman. I own those racing stables, and this land.’
Freddie heard the name Ian Tillerman and no more after that. The rest of the diatribe hurtled past him as he remembered Kate’s letters.
‘And who is that on the other horse?’ he asked.
‘My fiancée,’ said Ian Tillerman pushing his chest out arrogantly. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours. And if anything happens to my Kate – you – you and your noisy bloody motorbike will end up facing MY lawyers in court.’
The shock burned into Freddie’s heart as if he’d been stung by a thousand wasps. His body wasn’t ready for it and neither was his mind. His heart took the full force of it and began to beat furiously in his cold body; the small velvet box with Kate’s ring shook in the secret silk of his pocket. Kate, his Kate. No wonder her letters had stopped. But why, why hadn’t she told him?
On automatic pilot, Freddie revved the motorbike, swung it round and roared back towards the ferry, a new blast of rain spattering his hunched form as he headed into the wind.
The motorbike which had carried him steadily all the way suddenly behaved like a demon, wrenching and twisting his angry body, skidding and flying over the ruts and potholes. Freddie pushed it faster and faster, no longer caring, hardly seeing where he was going, the wind howling in his ears, a searing pain deep in his chest.
Two miles further on, the rough road turned sharp left over a bridge that spanned the canal. Freddie heard the fierce rasp of skidding wheels and the handlebars jammed sideways as the front wheel hit a stone post with a sickening crunch. He saw the canal water steaming, he saw leaves and clods of mud storming through the air, and then an almighty splash of briny water hit the side of his head, forcing itself straight through his balaclava. He landed spread-eagled on the squelching wet bank, turned his head and watched his motorbike sinking into the dark water, making a deep groaning bubbling sound that gradually settled into a silent lap-lapping of water. Gasping for breath, Freddie clawed at tufts of grass with his hands, then laid his cheek on the cold mud and plummeted down, down into an echoing coma.
Nobody came running. Except for a lone workman standing up on a barge in the distance, the place was deserted. The fuel from the submerged motorbike coiled into swirling rainbows on the still surface of the canal and a shaft of acid sunlight lit up the mud-covered body lying on the bank.
Kate sat back in the saddle and pulled steadily at Little Foxy’s reins, talking to her constantly, trying to keep fear out of her voice. Ian had warned her that the young mare was frightened of motorbikes. But there hadn’t been time to take evasive action. This motorbike with its mud-plastered rider had come at them on the bend just as they were returning from the gallop. The horses were tired and steaming in the cold air, and Kate had relaxed and let Little Foxy plod along on a loose rein. She’d been in the middle of telling Ian a joke about a chicken when they’d heard the motorbike, and Little Foxy had whipped around and bolted, her head and tail high, her eyes wild. Kate heard Ian’s roar of rage and his voice shouting. She clung on, gradually regaining her grip, shortening the reins and trying to calm the panicking horse.
She steered Little Foxy through an open gateway into a ploughed field, knowing that the rough ground would slow her down, and it did. The mare soon came to a halt, her sides heaving. Kate got her feet free of the stirrups and swung herself down, quickly pulling the reins over Little Foxy’s head so that she had control.
‘Poor girl. It’s all right. I’m here,’ Kate said, her hand on the horse’s neck. She was surprised to find her own legs shaking. The incident had unnerved her. Quivering all over, she leaned against Little Foxy who gave her a sympathetic nudge as if she understood. ‘Well, look at us both, in such a state,’ said Kate in her normal cheerful voice. ‘Now we’re going to turn around and walk quietly back – no more panicking.’
With her legs still trembling, Kate coaxed the horse out of the field and into the lane where they both stood listening. The sound of the motorbike was fading into the distance, and she waited until it had disappeared completely, leaving only the whine of the wind and the rain pattering. Kate took a deep breath. She wanted a little cry but didn’t allow it. She was all right, it was just a memory that haunted her, of that day when she had been thrown from the cart at Monterose station. She found herself thinking of Freddie, wishing it was his thoughtful blue eyes welcoming her now, not Ian’s demanding stare.