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 Granny Barcussy’s greeting. Now he was sopping wet, starving and frightened by what he had done. She would be better able to deal with it than his mother.

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 Granny Barcussy’s place, and it struck him as odd that no smoke was rising from it.

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 Granny Barcussy knew the war was over. He’d tell her. And he’d give her one of the precious sweets in his pocket, the humbug he thought she’d like. Then he’d chop wood and light a fire for her.

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, Granny?’

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 Granny Barcussy’s boots facing him on the floor. She lay there, on her side, her white hair, unrolled from its usual bun, spread out across the stone floor. A stain of blood, now old and dark, oozed from under her neck. Her cheeks and lips were blue-white, her eyes closed under eyelids that had the cold sheen of marble.

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.

Granny Barcussy was dead.

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 Annie and Freddie waiting for him at home. ‘’Tis my missus, see. She can’t manage no more. Can’t go out – won’t go out. And my younger lad, Freddie, twelve he is and clever. The village school can’t teach him no more, he’s learned it all, and now he’s bored. Two more years he’s gotta go there, wasting time. I gotta show him how to make a life. That’s what I gotta do. And this – well ’tis an opportunity.’

‘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 Annie, hiding indoors. He loved their cottage, but it would be better for all of them to live in town.

‘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 Annie. He saw a boy pedalling past on a bike with shiny handlebars; the boy looked purposeful and in charge of his life. Levi wanted Freddie to be like that, not forever white-faced and exhausted as he carried buckets from the well and chopped wood for the fire.

‘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 sunny side was a mass of pink and white valerian covered in butterflies. It was a long time since Levi had even glanced at flowers and butterflies, but now he gazed, his soul hungry for beauty. This was his garden. His paradise garden. Annie would love it.

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. Annie would be inside that big window in an apron as white as a goose, welcoming people into the shop, while he and Freddie made the loaves and rolls, the currant buns and the lardy cake. Levi could smell it cooking as he stood there. Freddie would have the sturdy bicycle with the delivery basket on the front and he’d go out, cleanly dressed and confident with his cargo of fresh bread.