He would see Judy and his grandfather again – and oh, the tales he would have to tell them!
One beautiful spring day, some nine months after leaving Blackpool, he hitched a lift into the outskirts of Bedford. ‘Here you are.’ Having stopped his wagon on the Cardington Road, the gruff, bearded driver waited for Davie to climb down from the cab. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ he called.
Davie thanked him, closed the cab door and waved him on. And when the lorry was gone from sight, Davie was surprised and thrilled to see before him the wide, flowing River Ouse, flanked on either side by banks of well-kept grass, and crossed at different points by numerous bridges, each with its own character.
Davie thought it a beautiful place. Majestic swans glided through the water; children played on the banks under the wary eyes of their mothers, and when the occasional canoe was driven out from beneath a bridge, the ensuing ripples created wider and wider circular patterns that broke into a trillion pieces as they came into contact with the walls at either side.
People on bicycles wended their way in and out of the age-old weeping willows that lined the pathways either side of the river; young couples lay on the grass, kissing and canoodling, oblivious to the passers-by. In the nearby cafés, customers sat and chatted, and from somewhere along the river floated the sounds of a playing brass-band.
The sun shone down and there was a sense of magic in the air. And for the moment at least, Davie was content to be a part of it.
So this was Bedford, his destination. He glanced about. Was this where he was meant to be? he mused. Was this where he would finally belong? He hoped so. He really and truly hoped so.
Feeling wearied by the long journey from his last stopover at Northampton, where he had done a fortnight’s stint in a shoe factory, he headed for one of the small cafés overlooking the river. Here he settled himself as far away from the busiest area as possible; he could see the river from here, yet avoid the prying eyes of strangers.
‘What can I get you?’ The trim, middle-aged waitress was polite though unfriendly, and that was exactly how he wanted it – though what he didn’t know was that she was quietly noting his crumpled clothes and wondering where he hailed from, and why he had chosen to sit here, when there were plenty of other, more suitable places – cafes where the workmen gathered to chat, or one of the many public houses in town.
But for all his scruffy appearance, she thought he seemed well-mannered and amiable, if somewhat uncomfortable around people.
‘I’d like the biggest mug of coffee you do,’ he requested, in a Northern accent. ‘Oh, and a thick bacon buttie, with lashings of bacon, please.’ The very idea made his mouth water; it was a long time since he’d had the taste of a good, genuine bacon buttie.
‘I’m afraid we don’t do bacon sandwiches, but I can offer you a ham and tomato roll.’ And when he nodded, abashed, she said, more kindly, ‘I’ll make that two, shall I, sir?’
While she went to get his order, Davie made himself comfortable, determined to enjoy his moment of luxury and to savour the beauty of this idyllic scene. There would be time enough to go in search of the address Eli had given him. Meanwhile, he would sit and think, and make his plans for the future – though what his future might be, was anyone’s guess.
He relished his snack to the full. Afterwards, satisfied and content, he ordered another cup of coffee and sat with it for a good half-hour, enjoying the treat; until finally he felt the urge to continue his search for Eli’s friend.
At the counter he fished the relevant coins out of his pocket and paid his dues, even leaving a sixpence tip for the waitress. ‘Thank you.’ She actually smiled on him as he went.
Whether it was the sixpence that made her smile, or the sight of him leaving, the youth couldn’t be certain.
Once outside and away from watchful eyes, Davie retrieved the slim wooden box from his duffel bag and took out the piece of paper with the name and address on it given to him by Eli. He found the older man’s scrawl difficult to decipher:
Mr Edward Baker
Greenacres Farm
Goldington, BEDS
There were no further directions and no telephone number. ‘Good God, Eli!’ Davie said aloud. ‘You could have drawn me a little map, or given me a list of directions to help me on my way.’
He stopped to ask passers-by, and it seemed no one knew the whereabouts of Greenacres Farm. ‘Why not go to the bus depot and ask at the counter there,’ suggested one helpful old dear. ‘If anybody knows where it is, they’ll be the ones.’
Following her excellent advice, he queued up at the ticket-counter of the bus and coach depot. ‘I’m looking for a place called Greenacres Farm,’ Davie explained hopefully. ‘It’s near here, somewhere around Goldington.’
The clerk knew of it. ‘You’ll need a number fourteen bus,’ he told Davie. ‘It won’t take you to the door, but the driver will drop you off on the main street, then it’s a walk along the lanes to the farm.’
Thanking him, Davie made his way across the boulevard, where he boarded a number 14 bus headed for Cambridge. He explained to the conductor where he needed to get off. ‘You’re on the right bus,’ came the reply, ‘but you’ll have to walk three miles or so once we’ve dropped you off.’
Seeming to have no choice, Davie settled himself into a seat, where he was quickly joined by a small boy. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked of Davie.
Davie looked around, and seeing how the woman behind was appearing to keep an alert eye on the child, he enquired of her, ‘Is it yours?’
‘Not exactly.’ She appeared to be amused by Davie’s description of the boy. ‘I’m just looking after “it” while my daughter works the morning shift,’ she answered with a smile.
Davie nodded. ‘Friendly young feller-me-lad, isn’t he?’
‘Is he troubling you?’
Davie would have preferred to answer yes. But when at that moment he looked down to see the little face uplifted in a cheeky grin, his heart melted. ‘No, of course not,’ he answered. ‘He’s no trouble at all.’
Satisfied, the woman sank back in her seat and left Davie to the chatter of her grandchild. After Davie was made to answer umpteen questions, about his destination, and why he was on the bus, and where his mum was, the child grew increasingly fidgety. ‘Are you all right?’ Davie thought the child was feeling travel sick.
‘Have you got a hankie?’ The little boy held out his hand.
Davie shook his head. ‘No. Sorry, I haven’t.’
‘I need a hankie.’
Davie fished about in his pocket and as he thought, there was no hankie to be found, and behind him, the woman appeared to have nodded off. ‘Got a cold, have you?’ he asked the child.
‘No.’
‘So, why do you need a hankie?’
Lowering his voice, he made a face. ‘I think I’ve plopped in my pants.’ To Davie’s horror, he gabbled proudly on, ‘I plopped in them before … when Grandma took me to the pictures. She said I was a dirty little hound and gave me a smack.’
Horrified, Davie inched aside, his nose wrinkled in anticipation. ‘You haven’t plopped now, have you?’
Wriggling and squirming, the boy dutifully felt the crutch of his trousers, his face crumpling as he looked up at Davie. ‘Dirty hound,’ he groaned. ‘Dirty little hound.’ The crying started as a kind of whining, which quickly soared to the pitch of hysteria. ‘Want my grandma!’
‘You little bugger!’ Mortified, his grandma reached out, and grabbing him by the scruff of his