The Boy with No Boots (20 page)

Kate’s letter was in his inner pocket next to his heart. Extracting it from the silky lining of his jacket he read it again.

A small sepia photograph on a square of cream cardboard was enclosed. It was a portrait of Kate’s face, a serious image of a young woman with bright caring eyes. Freddie
placed it on the map, in Gloucestershire, and was suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of the space between them. His heart was no longer in his haulage business. He felt unsettled and disconnected
from everyone; he needed time alone to think about his life, and how to disentangle himself from his present commitments. The biggest of these was his bond with his mother. He loved her, yet she
drained his energy and his time. Since Levi’s death he’d felt sorry for her, and her agoraphobia had intensified. She was totally dependent on Freddie, and on Gladys who she now
employed for a few hours a day.

When he had finished his haulage job, Freddie felt an old familiar feeling – he couldn’t stay at home. He filled the lorry with petrol and headed for the Polden Hills in the balmy
afternoon, driving past orchards where the trees were laden to the ground with ripening apples and the hawthorns heavy with berries. He drove slowly along the hilltop until he reached the gap in
the hedge where Kate had taken him for the picnic. He parked the lorry tight against the hedge and walked up to the ridge of hill, aware that the grassland around him was now bobbing with seed
heads, the orchids had died, the thyme had turned brown, and the trefoil was covered in tiny black pods of seed. Summer was over. And so was his life, Freddie thought gloomily.

He sat down in the spot where they’d had the picnic, and touched the earth where Kate had been sitting. It was warm and crisp like fresh bread, but there was an emptiness, a hollow place
in his soul where Kate should have been. His eyes roamed the landscape, scanning that empty strip of silver sky between the Mendips and the Quantocks. Far away he could see the islands of the
Bristol Channel floating in some shimmering misty place, and beyond was a whisper of an outline of high and distant hills. Was he seeing over that mile-wide estuary into Gloucestershire where Kate
was now? It comforted Freddie to think that he could come up here and gaze directly towards her.

Surely it was possible to send his thoughts whizzing over there on some ethereal network. He remembered the vision he’d had at his father’s funeral. Sitting on the steps at the back
of the church he’d seen a beam of gold deep down in the earth and stretching for miles and miles, following the curve of the earth. Granny Barcussy knew some amazing things, and once
she’d told him about the Aborigines who lived in Australia, and how they communicated with distant tribes by using the song lines. It wasn’t logical, but in his prophetic soul, Freddie
understood it. He wished he had a drum to beat out a message that would carry across the water to that distant shore. All he had was his voice. He looked around, checking that he was alone on the
ridge, and he was.

He started to sing, huskily at first, furtively, then confidently as he remembered some of the songs Kate liked. ‘Danny Boy’ – he could sing that – and the words mirrored
his feelings exactly, so he sang that first. Then he remembered ‘The water is wide, I cannot cross over’. He sang until the tears started trickling down his cheeks and drying on his
skin in the afternoon sun. Then he strolled along the ridge, whistling the nostalgic tunes, and the sadness began to disperse as if the music was sweeping it away. It was a time for courage, he
thought, for making the best of it, as Kate had said. He must focus on building his business, making enough money to afford a home fit for Kate. And there was no reason why he shouldn’t go to
Gloucestershire and see her, he thought, especially if he had a motorbike.

Kate sat on the top bar of the high wooden gate, her arms round the neck of a sleek chestnut horse. The feel of its warm silky coat, the softness of its muzzle and the kindly
dark eyes were cheering her up. There were other horses in the field, but this one, a thoroughbred, had made a beeline for Kate as if it knew she needed a friend.

Bertie knew his daughter very well, and he had deliberately sent Kate out on her own, ‘to check the sheep’ he’d said, knowing that the route to the sheep pastures would take
Kate past the racing stables, and she would be sure to find a horse to cuddle. So while Ethie and Sally organised the new cheese-making enterprise, Kate had gone off by herself, dressed in her
farming gear of breeches, long boots and a red shirt. She’d enjoyed the walk through the sheep fields on the wide flat banks of the Severn Estuary, the fresh salty air and the light on the
water, the surge of the incoming tide as it covered the expanses of sand and spilled into mirror-like pools where thousands of seabirds bobbed and fished, their cream heads and silvery feathers
shining in the morning sun. This landscape was so different from Hilbegut. The tidal river was dominant and powerful, eating away at the sheep fields, making low turfy cliffs and inlets. In the
distance were the high wooded hills of the Forest of Dean.

Kate had walked a mile along the green banks, carefully looking at the grazing sheep and the fat summer lambs, seeing no signs of illness or trouble. She had sat on the turfy cliff edge,
swinging her boots and enjoying the fresh wind on her cheeks, and watched a line of barges chugging up the river. Laden with massive mahogany logs from the rainforest, they turned into the canal
entrance to wait at the lock gates and then unload their cargo at the timber mill.

Parallel to the sheep pastures, on slightly higher ground, was the land belonging to the racing stables, a circuit of it expensively fenced with post and rails to make a ‘gallop’.
Kate hadn’t had much experience of racehorses and she was eager to see them. The horse she was petting suddenly raised its head and whinnied loudly. Along the lane came a man riding an
elegant dappled grey racehorse and leading a second one, a glossy bay with a black mane and tail.

‘Hello there.’ He paused, surprised to see the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl sitting on the gate. Kate flashed a smile at him, and he smiled back. He had very white teeth and black
merry eyes.

‘Hello.’ Kate jumped down from the gate and went to stroke the two tall horses who arched their necks graciously and blew in her hair. ‘Are they racehorses?’

‘Yes – both, in training for Cheltenham.’

‘They’re so beautiful,’ breathed Kate. ‘Are they yours?’

‘Yes. Bred them both, I did,’ he said proudly, smoothing the neck of the grey horse who stood staring thoughtfully into the distance. ‘I’m Ian Tillerman. And you
are?’

‘Kate Loxley.’

‘Ah – a Loxley.’

‘I’m Don Loxley’s niece.’

‘Just on holiday, are you?’

‘No. We’ve come here to live at Asan Farm with my uncle. Mother, Dad, Ethie and me, from Hilbegut in Somerset.’

Ian Tillerman’s eyes brightened with interest. He looked intently at Kate who, he thought, exuded confidence and sparkle as she stood looking up at him.

‘Want a ride?’ he said impulsively. ‘Can you ride?’

‘Ooh yes. I love riding.’ Kate beamed. ‘But I’ve never ridden a real racehorse. I’d love to.’

Ian Tillerman kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped down. He stood gazing at Kate for a moment. ‘Are you used to galloping? These horses are fast, believe me.’

‘Yes,’ said Kate firmly, even though her nerves were on fire with excitement.

‘You ride the bay. She’s called Little Foxy, and she’s a good girl. She’s fine as long as she doesn’t see a motorbike. Just let her have her head. We’ll do
two circuits of the track,’ he said. ‘Keep her level with me, then I’ll know you’re all right.’

He gave Kate a leg up onto the horse, a bit too vigorously, so that she nearly shot over the other side.

‘Whoops. Steady on!’ she laughed loudly and Little Foxy flicked her ears back to listen to this new rider on her back, a girl with a bird-like voice and kind hands that smoothed the
crest of her neck. Kate adjusted the stirrups, and took the reins.

‘I can see you’ll be fine,’ said Ian Tillerman. He vaulted onto the grey horse and they set off at a sedate walk, through the gap in the hedge and into the gallop circuit. Kate
was thrilled. Little Foxy was quivering with excitement, knowing she was going to gallop like a wild horse. She began to dance sideways, her muscles rippling in the sunlight. Ian Tillerman glanced
at Kate and raised his black eyebrows. ‘Ready?’

‘You bet,’ she said, and before he could say anything else she had let Little Foxy go and was galloping ahead of him, her hair streaming back as she crouched low over the
horse’s neck, her knees gripping the leather saddle, her heels well down. He tore after her, his heart pounding when he saw the risk he’d taken so impulsively, letting a perfect
stranger, a girl, ride his expensive, corned-up racehorse. Supposing she couldn’t cope and had a terrible accident? It would be his fault, and Don Loxley would never forgive him, and neither
would his father.

But Kate was exuberant, loving the feel of the powerful horse, the wind whipping her cheeks to flame, the ground speeding past. She flashed a smile at Ian Tillerman as he thundered up beside
her, and urged Little Foxy even faster, the two horses flying over the turf, their nostrils flared, and hooves kicking up lumps of mud. Beside them in the wide river, the fast running tide
glittered as it raced up the estuary under a wild and shining sky.

Freddie drove his lorry slowly down the wooded hill into Yeovil, past the hospital and on through the streets of terraced houses, looking for George’s motorbike. When he
saw it propped in the front garden of a red brick house, he parked at the kerb, got out and walked through the overgrown garden. He knocked at the door with his fist and waited, glimpsing a
movement through the front window. George was at home, watching him behind mustard-coloured curtains. Freddie knocked again, louder, and eventually George came to the door. The way he opened it a
crack and peered out reminded Freddie momentarily of Annie, the same fear in the same eyes.

‘Oh, ’tis Freddie.’ George opened the door fully. He looked rough and unshaven, his clothes smelled fusty, and he wore battered leather slippers with a hole through which a
calloused and grubby toe protruded. ‘You better come in,’ he said, and led the way over bare floorboards into a room with mould up the walls and stacks of yellowing newspapers. One was
spread on the floor with some oily black bits of an engine on it.

‘That your lorry?’ George pointed to the dirty window where the bulk of the Scammell lorry glowed red.

‘Yes,’ said Freddie shortly.

‘Bet you haven’t paid for it.’

Freddie ignored the jibe and sat down on a rickety kitchen chair.

‘I’ve come to see you about Mother,’ he said.

‘What about her?’ George sat back and folded his arms across his chest in a defensive stance.

Freddie was silent. He tried to get eye contact but George wouldn’t look at him, and everything Freddie had planned to say was suddenly useless. So he stayed quiet and waited, thinking he
had to approach George from a different angle.

‘So what about Mother, then? Not ill, is she?’ George asked, and Freddie could see that his silence was unnerving. He maintained it until George’s questions started to
disintegrate into stumbling attempts to reconstruct the armour he’d always worn in front of his brother.

‘We’re brothers, George,’ said Freddie very quietly, ‘and I’d like us to be friends.’

‘Ah.’ Finally George met the steady blue gaze of Freddie’s eyes. They were full of light and a deep mysterious peacefulness that George didn’t have. He didn’t feel
good about the way he’d treated Freddie. Right from the start he’d either ignored or teased him, jealous of the way his mother had been so besotted by the waiflike blond child who had
grown into this quiet, confident young man who was offering him friendship. George crumbled. His big hands shook and his eyes glistened. He took a fag from a squashed packet and lit it, offering
one to Freddie.

‘No thanks.’

‘’Tis hard,’ said George. ‘I miss the old man. And ’tis lonely here, see? I do care about Mother. It’s just – well, ’tis hard, a hard life I got.
I’ll tell ’e, Freddie . . .’

Freddie kept quiet and listened attentively. George was talking to him for the first time, telling him about his job at Petter Engines, sharing his dream of having his own garage, the pains in
his legs and shoulders, and how he hated living alone. And right at the end of the tale he said sadly, ‘I were all right, see, ’til she went off.’

‘She?’

‘Freda. My lady love. Oh, I loved her. Lovely girl, lovely she was. A singer and a pianist. Play anything she could – make that piano dance, she did. I give her everything, Freddie,
everything, and she just upped and left me for some fancy boy from London. Nothing I could do. Nothing. You wait ’til you’re in love, Freddie. Then you’ll know.’