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 canal. Food, and shelter – and Kate – were not far away now.

Enormous barges were moored on the canal, 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 apron 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 cocked 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.

‘I gotta go on my way,’ said Freddie.

‘Oh, no you don’t.’ Ian Tillerman got down from his horse and confronted Freddie, his face an ugly brick red. ‘You’ve no business riding that damned motorbike down here. This is a private road. Can’t you read?’ He didn’t wait for Freddie to reply but ranted on, flicking his whip as he talked. ‘That’s a valuable racehorse, can’t you see that? She could break a leg galloping on the road like that. God knows what’s going to happen, and if there’s an accident I shall be suing you – whoever you are.’ He moved closer, his arms looped through the reins of the grey horse who stood watching the bay one still galloping in the distance. He put his red face close to Freddie and sniffed like a dog. ‘I thought so. Alcohol. You’ve been drinking. You’ve no business riding a motorbike in that state. Drunken bloody lout.’

Freddie was reminded of the times Levi had lost his temper. He knew it was no good trying to stop him, the explosion would go on until all the storm had been released. So Freddie hunkered down and let him rant, feeling nothing but contempt.