George’s words rang in her head, but she couldn’t believe Freddie had run away to London. He’d be back in a few hours, she was sure, her frightened mind refusing to even consider what she would do if he never came back. Annie picked up Freddie’s precious drawing book and turned the pages, marvelling at his detailed pictures of birds. There were owls and herons, and one of a hawk hovering high in the air above a speeding train. There were cows and horses, drawn from all angles, always moving. The book was nearly full, and towards the end Freddie had drawn motorbikes, cars and steam engines in meticulous detail. Annie frowned, and turned back again to the first page. There was a message hidden in the sequence of pictures, some clue about Freddie’s secret life, something she’d been missing. Looking deeper into the pictures, Annie saw that on every page was the face of a beautiful young girl, the girl on the Shire horse. Freddie had cleverly hidden her in his pictures. She would be sitting under a tree, or standing on a bridge or looking down from the clouds, always with her hair blowing in the wind. Freddie had never told his mother who she was, but Annie felt she was alive, looking at her from the pages of his drawing book.

She closed the book, smoothed it and put it back on his bedside table. New and startling thoughts came into her mind. Freddie was sixteen. He would want a life of his own, a wife maybe. How would she live without him? To Annie those thoughts were like a firebox. Open the lid and tongues of flame would come writhing out. She smelled burning, slammed the box shut and refused to look at the smoke seeping through the cracks, refused to acknowledge that one day the box would no longer contain that smouldering fire. She sat rocking herself on the edge of Freddie’s bed. It was nine o’clock and the smell of burning was real.

‘The bread!’ Annie gasped and struggled down the narrow staircase as fast as she could in her creaking slippers. The bakery was full of acrid smoke. She flung the door open and let it escape into the street. Then she opened the ovens and took out tray after tray of loaves and buns, all burned black and smoking.

‘Oh, what have I done?’ she wailed, slamming around with trays of charcoaled remains, brittle black shells of what should have been lovely sweet smelling buns. These were so dangerously hot that she hurled the trays outside into the back garden and left them. She began talking to herself, ‘You keep calm now. Just keep calm, get on and clear up the mess.’

By now, Freddie should have been out on his rounds with fresh loaves in the front of the bike. She would be stacking the shelves and getting the shop ready to open. Customers were already walking up the street, muffled in furry hats and scarves, willow baskets over one arm, breath steaming in the morning air. As usual, the first customer was Gladys. She knocked on the window and peered in.

‘Are you all right, Annie?’

Annie hesitated. She wanted to hide for the rest of the day. She didn’t want to face those expectant customers and admit she’d burned the bread. She sighed resignedly.

‘No peace for the wicked,’ she said, and, shamefaced, she let Gladys in.

‘Pooh. What a smeech!’ Gladys came in with her reassuring busybody manner. ‘What ’ave ’e done?’

‘Burnt the bread.’

‘Where’s Freddie?’

‘Out on the bike.’

Gladys eyed her knowingly. ‘Come on. I’ll help you,’ she said, and without waiting to be invited she took off her chocolate-brown hat, coat and gloves, rolled up her sleeves and set about scraping charcoal out of the ovens. ‘I’ll do this. You make some more dough. Put a notice in the window saying NO BREAD UNTIL MIDDAY.’

Annie looked at her gratefully. Trembling inside, she made herself get on with it. The two women scrubbed and scraped and by lunchtime a new batch of bread was in the oven. But there was no sign of Freddie.

Annie gave Gladys a generous basket of free bread and a warm thank you. Inside she wished she was like Gladys, always cheerful and out there helping people.

‘So where’s Freddie?’ Gladys asked, putting her coat on to leave. ‘It’s nearly two o’clock.’

‘He’ll be back later,’ said Annie, avoiding the concerned eyes.

‘Hmmm.’ Gladys gave her a shrewd stare and left, waddling down the street with her basket. The winter sun shone hazily, and a song thrush sang for a short interval, but the frost had hardly melted. By three o’clock Annie had sold the limited stock of bread to disgruntled customers. She closed the shop and stood in the doorway, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, her eyes looking up and down the street, watching for Freddie to appear amongst the jumble of horse-drawn carts and motorcars. She could feel the cold closing in, coming down with the night. Too upset to eat, she dragged a chair to the window and sat, endlessly, hopelessly watching, a hollow loneliness in her heart.

‘Abandoned, that’s what I am,’ she thought, ‘abandoned and unwanted.’

As twilight fell, she lit the two gas lamps and a few candles, her hands shaking with gathering fear. Freddie was not coming back. Her worst nightmare was coming true. She would be alone, housebound, with no one to help her. A prisoner, that’s what she would be. Despair and fear of insanity were already claiming her. She imagined the asylum with its miserable corridors and clanking, cream-painted beds, the wailing of madness around her, the unsmiling faces of doctors. A world without kindness, without love.

Annie remained sitting in the window, immersed in gloomy predictions. What had happened to all the love and the hard work she’d put into her life? Was it out there, somewhere roving around, wasted like time and spent like money? What would God do with her now?

‘How can you do this to me, Freddie?’ she whispered. ‘Wasn’t I a good mother?’

The tears were brewing again. She watched two bright headlights coming slowly up the street, a big motor vehicle with its wheels bouncing over the potholes. She heard the gears grind, the brakes squeak, and the lorry shuddered to a halt, to her alarm, right outside the bakery door. She watched, horrified, as the driver got out and slammed the door shut. A tall figure walked towards the door. She saw his face in the lamplight, a face glowing red and a smile bigger than itself.

‘Freddie!’ she screamed. ‘My Freddie!’

She threw her arms around him and gazed up at his face, noticing for the first time that he was much taller than her, and his eyes were sparkling with secrets waiting to be told.

‘I can’t believe it’s you. You’re not cold.’ Annie touched his coat and smelled a new smell on him. Oil.

‘’Course it’s me, Mother,’ he beamed. ‘And – I bought a lorry.’

‘You did WHAT?’

Freddie could feel the shock waves emanating from his Mother. He sat down at the kitchen table, took his cap off and pushed his hair back from his brow. His face ached with unaccustomed smiling.

‘Well – first, I didn’t intend to go out like that, in the dark, mother. But George wasn’t too happy about my bag of money.’

‘He’s gone home.’

‘For good?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Annie, non-committedly. She looked out the window at the shadowy bulk of the lorry standing there in the dusk.

‘It’s a Scammell,’ said Freddie. ‘I was lucky to get it.’

‘Ah. You were.’ Annie was still trying to take it in. ‘Did you have enough money?’

‘Yes, and some left over for petrol.’

‘I know. You’ve been saving for a long time.’ Annie’s eyes smiled at Freddie, and her mouth moved just a little. She knew about his secret hoard under the floorboard. Sometimes she’d stealthily opened it up and added a few pennies or a shilling when Freddie was out, so she smiled to herself. Then something else occurred to her. ‘But you can’t drive.’

Freddie grinned. ‘I thought about that. I’m sixteen and the law says that when you’re sixteen you can drive. But I didn’t know how, so I asked Joan Jarvis to give me a lesson, and she did.’