'Wheee! I feel LIBERATED!' cried Kate and she flung her arms in the air and danced in the street, swishing her skirt and laughing.

'For goodness' sake, Kate!' Ethie rolled her eyes. She had to admit Kate did look good with her glossy hair short and curling cheekily onto her rosy face. Whatever Kate did, she looked marvellous. It wasn't fair. Ethie touched the back of her neck and it felt cold and bristly. She was sure the new hairdo accentuated her pimples and made her face look fat.

'Come on. We're going to buy some STOCKINGS.' Kate dragged her into a draper's shop and bought them each a pair of silk stockings. 'Now we can go dancing,' she said, her eyes alight as they left the shop and found themselves opposite the town hall where a poster proclaimed 'Sat.u.r.day Night Dance'.

'I can't dance,' said Ethie. 'You know that, Kate.'

'You can. You learned it at school like I did, Ethie. Come on, it's time you had some FUN.'

'Dancing isn't fun. Dancing is torture.'

Kate stood and looked at her sister in concern. Ethie looked like a guilty dog who had stolen a chicken carca.s.s. Her mouth drooped and her pale blue eyes were furtive and full of pain.

'What is wrong, Ethie?' she asked, holding out both her hands to her sister. She wanted to understand what it was that made Ethie perpetually unhappy. 'Are you homesick?'

Ethie's eyes p.r.i.c.kled. She couldn't accept Kate's warm kindness. She thought of the stolen letters and suddenly wanted to blurt it all out, there in the street, but she couldn't.

'It's nothing,' she mumbled.

'Is it time of the month again?'

'NO.'

'What is it then?'

'Nothing. Just leave me alone, Kate. And I am not going dancing with you.'

Kate took her sister's arm determinedly. 'Would you like to come and see the horses with me?' she asked. 'You'd love Little Foxy, she's so friendly. Ian might invite you to ride.'

Ethie looked tempted. 'Oh, all right, if you insist,' she sighed.

The walk back to Asan Farm took the girls along the towpath between the railway line and the ca.n.a.l, then past the Tillerman's Racing Stables where Kate worked every morning. She did everything from mucking out stables, cleaning tack, grooming and feeding the beautiful horses. It was hard work, but the highlight of the morning was going out on Little Foxy for the gallop. Ian Tillerman always wanted her alongside him, the stable boys behind them on the other four horses. Kate had made friends with everyone, quickly laughing away the initial smirks, joking and teasing as they worked. She enjoyed it and liked having money to spend.

She took Ethie to see Little Foxy. The mare arched her sleek neck over the stable door, her ears p.r.i.c.ked and eyes shining as she greeted the two girls.

'She's lovely,' said Ethie, reaching up to stroke her along the crest of her mane. 'I'll bet she's a lovely ride.'

'She's wonderful. Light as air,' said Kate. 'But she is a bit nervous. She's petrified of tractors and motorcars, and motorbikes. We have to be careful she doesn't meet any on that narrow road.'

The two girls stood petting the beautiful horse, and Ian Tillerman soon appeared, carrying a saddle on his hip, his brow furrowed.

'Oh, it's KATE.' His frown changed to a smile of recognition. 'I didn't recognise you with . . . with . . .'

'The new hairdo!' Kate beamed coquettishly and patted her newly bobbed hair. Ian reached out a suntanned hand and moved a curl gently away from her cheek.

'Hmm. I quite like it. Very trendy and cheeky too,' he appraised, then he glanced at Ethie and frowned again.

'My sister, Ethie,' said Kate.

'How do you do.' Ethie shook hands stiffly, trying not to stare at the leathery hunk of a man. Ian Tillerman was her ideal image of the kind of man she wanted. Broad tweedy shoulders, long confident legs, white teeth and dark, attentive eyes. But as usual his eyes looked her over quickly, distastefully she thought, and turned back to gaze raptly at Kate.

'We want to go dancing,' Kate was saying brightly. 'So we had our hair bobbed. It's liberating!'

'I'll take you dancing,' said Ian. 'I'll pick you both up at seven tonight, and take you home afterwards.'

'Oooh. Yes, we'd love that. Wouldn't we, Ethie?'

Ethie scowled down at her neat navy shoes.

'No thanks,' she said abruptly. 'I've got to be up early to collect the salmon from the putts.'

She didn't look at Ian Tillerman again. Sensing the look of relief on his face was enough, she didn't want to see it any more than she wanted him to see the sudden fury in her eyes. It wasn't fair. Her plan to hurt Kate by stealing Freddie's letters was backfiring. Now, she thought, Kate was flirting with the man she wanted, and Ethie could see that Ian Tillerman was already besotted.

It was late October and the trees were aflame with autumn colours, an Indian summer blessed with misty mornings, and afternoons drowsy with the perfume of cider and wood smoke. At sunset, the white tendrils of mist crept low over the Levels, leaving the town of Monterose isolated like an island of rosy light, the church clock glinting, the bakery windows golden.

A beam of sun flared through the garden gate into the yard, lighting the delicate face of the stone angel. It glistened with moisture from the final wash-down Freddie had given it. Now he walked round it, looking at it from every angle, his mind ringing with a blend of excitement and satisfaction.

It was finished. Freddie thought it was the best thing he had ever made. He'd seen the angel waiting inside the block of stone, and his hands had brought her alive. She had Kate's beautiful face, and Kate's flowing hair. She had praying hands and outstretched curving wings. He didn't need to show her to anyone. It was enough to have brought her into being with the combined skill of his artistic soul and his careful hands. Everything else he had done in his life was suddenly meaningless, as if this was his life, his reason for living.

Standing in the twilight with one bright star in the smooth sheen of the western sky, Freddie sensed he was not alone. A circle of radiance hung around the stone angel, like an aurora, gently shifting, settling into shapes that he recognised, faces looking in at him: Granny Barcussy, Levi, his grandfather, and there were others, a crowd of shining faces looking at his angel.

Freddie nodded at them, dried his hands on a cloth, and stooped to pick up his scattered tools and put them in their wooden box.

Annie was asleep in the armchair, her knitting on the floor beside her. Freddie helped himself to a bowl of soup from the pot, cut a hunk of cheddar and broke a crusty end from the loaf on the table. He ate his supper, staring out at the silhouette of the angel in the garden, until it was too dark to see her. Then he closed the heavy curtains, locked the door and sat looking at his mother's sleeping face, thinking it had brought him down to earth with an uncomfortable thud. She was so tired lately that he had to wake her up to send her to bed. It wasn't the work in the bakery that tired her, it was her nerves. Something had to be done.

In the lonely weeks since Kate's departure he'd focused on the stone carving, and it had lifted him into a different dimension, and while he worked on the angel he was thinking about the other blocks of stone he had acc.u.mulated. He knew exactly what he was going to carve from each one, the images catalogued in his mind. Owls, squirrels, foxes, eagles, dolphins, he wanted to try them all, and right at the end of his list he planned to buy a substantial block of Bath stone and have a go at a lion.

Finishing the angel was like coming to the end of an epic novel which had taken weeks to read. Without it, there was an awkward s.p.a.ce in his mind, and the complications of his life came diving and swooping like returning swallows. He picked up Kate's last letter and read it, frowning. It was shorter than usual, and she hadn't said anything about his planned visit, which seemed strange. He'd written about the stone angel, and she hadn't mentioned that either. It wasn't like Kate. He was concerned about the job she had started. Riding racehorses seemed dangerous for a beautiful young woman like Kate. And Freddie didn't like the sound of Ian Tillerman one bit. A toff, that's what Ian Tillerman was, he decided.

But first something had to be done about his mother. Freddie sat thinking in the candlelight, and one person kept popping up in his mind. She'd always taken an interest in him, encouraged him with whatever he was doing, and, he thought suddenly, her husband was a doctor! Freddie put on his coat and cap, and stepped out into the moonlit street. With long, decisive strides he headed up the hill to the Old Coach House with the new electric lights shining from its windows. He opened the wrought iron gate, took a deep breath, and knocked on Joan Jarvis's door.

Chapter Seventeen.

THE ROAD TO LYNESEND.

Freddie pushed the heavy motorbike onto the waiting ferry boat, his stomach tight with nerves as he eyed the foaming clay-brown river water slopping at the edges of the ramp. He parked the bike and went to stand at the front of the broad boat which rocked and creaked on the tide.

'Last trip today,' shouted the ferryman. 'There's rough weather coming in.'

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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.e.l.l. 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 pa.s.sengers, he was rea.s.sured to see that n.o.body 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 b.u.t.toned 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 ma.s.ses 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 sh.o.r.es of the Severn, and the feel of the little velvet box in his pocket kept him going. The antic.i.p.ation 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 ca.n.a.l. Food, and shelter and Kate were not far away now.

Enormous barges were moored on the ca.n.a.l, 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 ap.r.o.n 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.'

'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 c.o.c.ked 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.