The frost burned his ears and crystallised under his collar, between the buttons of his jacket and up his sleeves, which were too short for him. It grazed the back of his throat and etched its sharpness deep into his lungs. He paused in the market square to blow on his hands, which were now completely numb and locked onto the handlebars. Obviously he couldn’t stay out there for two hours. He had to find a warm refuge for himself, his bike and his bag of money.
No lights shone from any of the houses or shops, and the square which was so busy during the day was deserted except for a bunch of rats scuttling along the base of the church wall. Freddie inspected the church porch. It was clammy and unfriendly. He thought about the station waiting-room which usually had a welcoming fire, and decided to go there.
The old bread bike had no brakes and with the heavy bag of money in the front it careered down the station hill like a toboggan. Freddie stuck his long legs out straight, his hobnailed boots striking sparks along the road, making a lot of noise, and he arrived breathless at the station railings. He felt like laughing out loud. No one was around as he wheeled the bike onto the platform, and the moonlight gleamed on the rails. He turned the brass knob of the waiting-room door and, to his great joy, it was unlocked. The smell of coal and leather lingered in the air and it felt warm as he pushed the bike inside and stood there in heavy darkness. A faint red glow came from the embers of the fireplace.
Freddie carried the clanking coal bucket outside and helped himself to some chunks of the silvery coal stacked in the yard. Then he re-lit the fire and sat toasting his face and hands against its cheerful flame. The first train was not until eight o’clock, so he had plenty of time to luxuriate by the roaring fire, guard his bag of money, and reassemble his daring plan.
Annie was distraught when she discovered Freddie had gone. She ranted at George as they made the bread together.
‘How could you let ’im go out in the frost and the dark like that, George? What were you thinking?’
‘I couldn’t stop him,’ protested George as he stoked the coke oven vigorously.
‘He’s not strong, our Freddie, he suffers with bronchitis,’ said Annie. ‘He’s not like you, George. He never had what you had, a healthy childhood and good food. He grew up in the wartime and he suffered – oh you should’ve seen his little feet. Covered in blisters, all septic they were, from wearing clogs. You never had to do that, did you?’
‘No,’ agreed George shortly, ‘but you’d no business having another baby at your age, Mother, and with the war coming.’
Annie bristled. ‘Don’t you dare tell me that. We didn’t know the war was coming. And Freddie was born easy. He’s a lovely boy, lovely, been so good to me he has. You were always jealous of him, George, don’t ask me why. And the girls – they never wanted to be bothered with Freddie, had their heads full of fancy hats and silly dancing. My Freddie, he’s done more for me than any of you lot.’ She pounded a batch of dough, flapping it over on the floured tabletop and digging her knuckles into it. All the time she was watching the door and listening for Freddie to return.
‘He wouldn’t have gone out like that – in the DARK – without breakfast, George. What did you say to him?’
‘Nothing much. Just asked him about the sack of money he had. He woke me up, banging it down the stairs. What was he doing with a hoard like that, smuggling it out at that time of the morning? Looks suspicious to me. Very suspicious.’ George plunged his hands into a bowl of water, took the bar of Sunlight soap and started washing the coal dust from his arms. ‘There’s something odd about that boy, Mother. You can’t see it.’
Annie’s cheeks flushed with frustration. ‘Freddie is not odd,’ she said, frowning at George. ‘You’ve never taken the trouble to get to know him. He’s clever, and he’s artistic’
‘Artistic!’ George’s voice went up an octave. ‘What good is that?’
‘Who are you to judge? Freddie’s been miserable in this bakery, I know that. It’s not what he wants. He wants to be a mechanic. And surely you could have helped him? Fine brother you’ve been, and now look at you – boozing and wasting your money. Shame on you.’
George shrugged.
‘And don’t you shrug your shoulders at me.’ Annie was getting more and more upset. She felt like a kettle about to boil over with two years of unexpressed grief at losing Levi. Two years of extreme anxiety when Freddie had quietly gone on helping her the way he always had. Suddenly she felt engulfed by remorse. She’d never even told Freddie how much she appreciated him, she’d never said thank you to him, and today it was his birthday. She looked at his present sitting on the dresser, wrapped in brown paper. It was a pair of gloves she’d knitted him. How badly he would need them now, out there somewhere in the deathly cold. Annie began to tremble with anxiety.
‘Don’t treat me like a child, Mother. I’m a man now,’ said George, and then he added something that demolished the remains of Annie’s self-control. ‘I expect he’s run away to London. You’ll probably never see him again.’
Annie collapsed into a chair with a howl of anguish. She put her head in her hands and the tears erupted from her hot face, the sobs deep, deep down in her body. Her crying was loud and harrowing in the bakery, as if her sorrow was going everywhere, across the table, into the neat trays of uncooked loaves and buns, into the waiting ovens and the listening stones of the cottage walls.
George was shocked. He’d never seen his mother cry, even when Levi had died. She’d always been rock solid and in control. And now she was crying – over Freddie! He walked over to her, and put his hand on her humped shoulders.
‘There – don’t cry. I didn’t mean to . . .’
‘Yes you did,’ accused Annie and her eyes burned up at him like two cracks of sapphire. ‘Freddie’s left because of you. You’ve treated him bad – BAD. And he won’t come back when you’re here, George. You’ve made him hate you. I wouldn’t treat a dog like you’ve treated him.’
George picked up a tray of loaves and started to slide them into the oven, and Annie cried even louder.
‘LEAVE THE BREAD,’ she shouted. ‘It’s me you should care about, and your brother.’ She pushed her chair back and stood up, facing George with her chin and her ample bust lifted imperiously, her eyes steady again and in control. ‘I think you’d better leave, George. You get on that smelly motorbike and go home, back to Yeovil, and don’t come here again until you can look me in the eye and apologise. From the heart. Go on. Just GO.’
‘And who’s going to deliver this bread?’ George raised his eyebrows and went on stacking the oven.
‘Just GO,’ said Annie. ‘I don’t care about the bread. I don’t care if it’s burnt to a cinder. I care about my Freddie.’
‘You’ve got flour in your hair,’ said George lightly. But when he saw the ultimatum in Annie’s eyes, he brushed the flour from his own hands, hung up the cloth he was holding, and took his coat from the back of the door.
‘All right. I’ll go. But don’t come running to me next time you want help.’
Annie stood at the window like a stone statue, her hands at her sides, her eyes watching the February sunrise over Monterose, the red sky brightening over crystallised rooftops, glinting on icicles which hung in long strips from the eaves, and she watched the steam from the first early trains come curling through the town. She drew the curtains and looked out at the back garden where the moon was sinking into the west, its marble face tinged with rosy pink.
She went upstairs and stood in Freddie’s bedroom. Mechanically she made his bed and sat down on it, staring bleakly around at the whitewashed walls. The picture of Granny Barcussy looked knowingly at her. Annie had never liked Levi’s mother. She’d been too bubbly for Annie’s way of being; she’d found it hard to tolerate her enthusiasm for life and the bewitching effect she had on Freddie.