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Under the lime tree where his grandfather first appeared in his haze of primrose light, Freddie lingered just long enough to remember that summer day and the warmth of Gra
He trudged on across the carpet of sodden leaves, out of the wood and down towards the river. The water was brown and swirling, washing sticks and foam against the bridge as he ran over. Now he could see the round terracotta chimney of Gra
A strange feeling hovered around the farmhouse, a thick silence that seemed to reach out towards him, pushing him away. Freddie walked slower and slower, his hand over the picture in his pocket. He wondered if Gra
With those bright thoughts he ran the last stretch to the farmhouse door, undid the latch and pushed it open. It smelled musty and the fireplace was full of ashes, cold and unlit. He touched the empty rocking chair and it creaked, rocking a little on the flagstone floor.
‘Where are you, Gra
Leaving wet splodges of footprints Freddie went to the kitchen, surprised to see the door swinging open. He peered inside, and saw the worn soles of Gra
The nine chickens were clustered around her, cuddled together along the length of her frail body and in the crook of her arm, roosting there quietly, like guardians.
Shocked, Freddie touched the black knitted shawl that covered her shoulder. She felt strange, like a log broken from a tree. He touched her blue hand. It was stiff and icy cold.
Freddie sat down on the floor and stared at her. He stared until he realised he could no longer see the bright aura that had always shone out of her. The light had gone out. And then he knew.
Gra
Freddie felt oddly calm. First he took a cream wax candle from the jar, set it in the metal candlestick and lit it with a match. The glow flickered warmly in the rain-darkened room, moving the peachy light up the damp walls, making shadows of the kettle and the pots and pans, lighting the wise eyes of Freddie’s china owl which stood on the dresser.
Then he fetched the red tartan rug from the back of the sofa and arranged it gently over her, right over her face and hair. The chickens murmured but didn’t move. Then Freddie lay down on part of the rug beside her, cuddled up to her in his wet clothes, and closed his eyes.
Chapter Six
‘SHADES OF THE PRISON-HOUSE’
Levi stared into the solicitor’s eyes for a long time. They were dark brown and unwavering over the top of a pair of round gold-rimmed spectacles. The lower lids were red and pimply, the skin sagging into half-moons of shadow, giving Arthur Warcombe a look like that of a bloodhound. He didn’t suffer fools, and he wouldn’t wait much longer for Levi’s decision. His black fountain pen gleamed in his hand, a minute bead of Quink on the gold nib, waiting above the document on his desk.
‘I’ve never, in my life, taken a risk like this,’ Levi said.
‘Well, now is the time, my man. Now. It won’t wait.’
‘Ah.’ Levi thought about A
‘He’d be better off in school here – it’s just down the road, a good school from what I hear.’
‘Ah,’ said Levi again, his mind moving several squares ahead, seeing Freddie as a young man leaving school at fourteen, and A
‘I’ve known you a long time, Levi, and your father before you,’ said Arthur. ‘And I wouldn’t give you this advice if I didn’t think you could handle it.’
Levi thrummed his fingers on the desk, looking out of the window at a cherry tree in full blossom, its white petals drifting down the street like snowflakes. People were walking past the window along the pavement. To Levi they looked energetic and smart, not downtrodden and defensive like A
‘Well then – now – I’ll do it,’ said Levi, and Arthur handed him the fountain pen.
‘Good man. No, don’t sign yet. We need a witness.’
He rang a brass bell on his desk and his secretary appeared, standing stiffly at the door in her stone-grey suit and shiny black shoes. She watched importantly while Levi signed the cream-coloured document, wrote his name and address and the date. Arthur lit a match and took a stick of red sealing wax from the tray on his desk, melted it over the flame and dropped a neat round blob onto the paper. He pressed a seal into it before it dried.
‘There. Congratulations, Mr Barcussy. You are now a baker, and a landlord. Good luck.’
Levi shook his hand, the rare spark of a smile in his eyes. A baker, and a landlord. He began to shake, deep inside his stomach, uncontrollably, and, feeling it spreading down to his painful knees, he stood up and left the office, leaning on the polished knob of his walking stick as he hobbled down the steep stairs. Outside in the street he put his cap on, then took it off again, threw it up in the air, and allowed a smile to unlock his face which had been tightly closed for years under a florid mask of resignation.
He strutted down the street, past Monterose Post Office and the church, the graveyard and the Board School. Through the cattle market and down the next street which had houses one side and tall elm trees on the other. At the end of it, Levi saw the roof of his new property coming into view, and it felt like the sun rising. Leaning on the garden wall he savoured the strength of the stones, sun-warmed and inlaid with intricate lichens, yellow stonecrop and toadflax. Inside the wall on the su
His eyes moved down the overgrown path to the door next to the shop window and looked up at the dilapidated sign. A new one was needed. Barcussy’s Bakery. It sounded grand. Freddie would help him paint the big letters. A