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Prologue
For some time after she left, he waited for a letter, watching out for the post van from the top of the old rampart. He took special care to sit there on Tuesday mornings because he had a theory that she'd write at the weekend and post it Sunday evening or early Monday. She must know he'd be worrying that she was all right and had somewhere to live and money, so he was confident the letter would come.
Sitting up there early in the day on the damp grass, all the colours of the surrounding countryside seemed newly washed. Because the wind blew chill across the earthwork, he wore the last pullover she'd knitted for him, tracing the cable pat tern with his fingers and remembering how she'd sat by the window in the good light to knit it.
He knew that at fourteen years old he wasn't a child and ought to be able to manage without her, just as she'd said. But he still felt a strange pain inside him when he thought about her.
He saw the little red box-like van most mornings, rattling along the road down there, past the quarry. Sometimes there were letters for the farm. The van turned up the hill and, his heart pounding, he'd race to intercept it. But the driver would only shake his head, smiling, and speed on. There was no letter for him. The awful emptiness returned as, trousers creased and damp from dew, he made his way down to the road to await the school bus.
On the evenings of such days he'd surreptitiously riffle among the opened mail jammed behind the mantelpiece clock to see if she'd written to his father. But if letter there had been, his father had hidden it away, perhaps because it was precious to him, too. He longed to ask. He'd have liked to know if his fathershared his pain. But since on both accounts he'd most likely have got short shrift, he kept his questions and his feelings to himself.
One Tuesday when he awoke he knew in his heart that his letter would never come. He wondered if it was his fault and he'd done something to upset her. He didn't go out early to wait on the rampart that day, or any day ever again. He got on with the business of growing up. But he never forgot her and he hoped that, wherever she was now, she was happy there and perhaps, just occasionally, she thought about him.
Copyright ) 1993 by Ann Granger
