The Valley of Lost Secrets

by Lesley Parr

  On the one in front, two girls talk really fast in Welsh. It’s like they want us to know just how far from home we are. I look around and see some other evacuees; the oldest Turner has the youngest on her lap. I wave and they wave back but there’s no sign of Duff.

  Miss Williams tells us they usually sing Welsh hymns but today they’re singing them in English because of us. I think we’re supposed to be grateful. Lillian Baker says that makes her feel really welcome in Llanbryn. Miss Williams says that Lillian must be very clever because she can say ‘Llanbryn’ so well.

  One hundred and fifty miles from our school and Lillian Baker is still teacher’s flaming pet!

  We sing ‘Jesus Loves Me’. At our Sunday school, Duff swaps the words for rude ones and we laugh behind our hymn books. But this time, when the hymn is over, there’s nothing. I wish he was here; then maybe, just for a minute, it’d feel like evacuation never happened.

  Miss Williams asks the dark-haired lad to read a Bible story. She says she’s making the most of him because very soon he’ll be a collier at the pit and working men go to chapel, not Sunday school.

  I don’t quite catch his name, it sounds something like ‘Iron’ but it can’t be that. Even in Wales it can’t be that. Before he goes to the front, he passes his cap to the girl with fair hair and she holds it tight to her chest like she’s protecting it from the whole world. She reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who it is.

  At the end we say the Lord’s Prayer. Miss Williams says we’re going to learn it in Welsh next week. Lillian Baker looks so excited I think she might wet herself.

  Ronnie and me go outside to wait for Mrs Thomas by the railings. A loud wail comes from across the road and there’s Duff, trying to calm his little sister. He’s with the woman who picked them at the institute. And there’s someone else, another boy, skinny and shorter than Duff with straw-coloured hair. I call out and Duff waves but he doesn’t come over. The boy gives me a dark look so I stare at him hard. They keep walking down the hill.

  I turn to Ronnie but he isn’t next to me like he’s supposed to be. He’s over by the chapel doorway with the fair girl and the lad who might be called Iron. Ronnie’s got the lad’s cap on; it’s too big and slips down over his eyes, which makes him giggle.

  The three of them start a game of blind man’s buff, even though the lad’s a bit old for it. The girl runs around and around Ronnie, tapping him on the shoulder. He spins and stumbles but doesn’t fall because the lad catches him and sets him straight. The game starts again and Ronnie grabs the girl’s arm. He pulls off the cap and they all laugh and laugh.

  Anyone would think he was their brother.

  The lad sees me watching. ‘Want to play?’ he says. ‘You can be “it” if you like.’

  I want to. But my feet won’t move.

  ‘Come on, Jimmy.’ The girl comes closer, staring right at me like her words are a dare. ‘Or don’t you want to get Campbell Germs?’

  Something crashes into my brain like a steam engine. There’s no grimy face and no wet dog smell, but this is Florence Campbell. With clean clothes and a ribbon in her hair like a proper girl.

  The lad and Ronnie come over too. Just then, Mrs Thomas rushes up the pavement. ‘Not late, am I?’

  ‘No, Gwen,’ the lad says, ‘Miss Williams finished a bit early today.’

  ‘You’d better get back to the shop, I’m sure your mam will be needing some help with the papers.’

  He puts his cap back on and grins at me. ‘I’m Yiyun,’ he says.

  ‘It’s spelled I-E-U-A-N,’ says Florence. Her eyes are shining in a way I’ve never seen before. Her voice is challenging me to a fight.

  Ieuan smiles at her. I think he likes her – but that doesn’t make sense because no one likes Florence Campbell. It’s a rule where we come from. But this isn’t where we come from, everything and everyone is different. Even Florence is different.

  But I feel just the same.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MR THOMAS

  Roast beef!

  The smell pulls us along the passage and into the living room like we’re the Bisto Kids.

  Mrs Thomas calls out, ‘Hello, love, we’re back. Now, boys, give me your coats and I’ll hang them up. Go on, into the living room. Say hello.’

  Mr Thomas is reading a newspaper in the biggest armchair next to the fireplace.

  He looks over the top of it and nods his head.

  ‘These are our special guests,’ she says. ‘Jimmy and Ronnie.’

  ‘Boys,’ he says.

  That’s all. He lifts the paper and disappears back behind a headline about tea rationing.

  Mrs Thomas points to a low table in front of the fire; it’s covered in comics. ‘They’re Ieuan’s old ones. Phyllis sent them round with the paper boy. You have a look at them while I finish getting dinner ready. I’ve got a nice bit of beef to celebrate you being here.’

  Celebrate? She must be as daft as Ronnie.

  ‘Thanks, Aunty Gwen!’ Ronnie says, picking his Dinky van off the table and putting it in his pocket. He dives on the pile of comics. It’s all Dandys and Beanos – loads of them. I try not to show I’m excited too.

  ‘Read me this one, Jimmy!’ Ronnie demands, pulling me down on to the settee next to him and holding up a Beano. I look over at Mr Thomas, still behind his paper. I can just see the top of his head, his dark hair slicked back with Brylcreem. Just like Dad’s. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, showing big, hairy arms. His hands are clean but there’s black stuff under his nails.

  Halfway through Lord Snooty, I can tell Ronnie’s stopped listening. He’s watching Mr Thomas. Or, at least, watching the newspaper Mr Thomas is behind.

  ‘Why won’t he talk to us?’ Ronnie whispers.

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Perhaps he doesn’t want us here. They were only supposed to have one evacuee, remember.’

  Oh heck, Ronnie’s face is crumpling up. Why did I go and say that? The last thing we need is for Mr Thomas to think he’s lumbered with a crybaby.

  Mr Thomas lowers his paper, folds it and puts it on his lap. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on top of it. Under his thick eyebrows, his eyes are like bits of coal. They’re that black. But they shine like coal too, and I can tell he’s not cross.

  He looks from me to Ronnie. ‘Two’s fine.’

  Again, that’s all he says. Ronnie raises his eyebrows as if asking me a question.

  ‘I don’t flaming know, do I?’ I say.

  ‘Dinner’s ready!’ Mrs Thomas calls from the kitchen.

  Ronnie looks confused. ‘But we haven’t had our lunch yet.’

  Mr Thomas gets up from his chair. ‘No one has lunch round here. Middle of the day is dinner.’

  Ronnie looks like he’s going to ask what they have at dinner-time but Mr Thomas has already gone into the kitchen.

  We get up and follow him through. Mrs Thomas is standing by the stove, wiping her hands on her pinny. On the table are four plates with potatoes, carrots, cabbage, roast beef and the biggest Yorkshire puddings I’ve ever seen. They’re like dinner bowls. Mr Thomas is sitting down, facing us.

  ‘Come on then,’ Mrs Thomas says, taking off her pinny and hanging it on a hook on the wall.

  We sit. Ronnie takes his Dinky van out of his pocket, drives it around my fork and parks it next to his plate.

  ‘Not on the table, please, Ronnie,’ Mrs Thomas says.

  Without looking up, he puts the van back in his pocket.

  Mr Thomas picks up the gravy boat.

  ‘Alun,’ Mrs Thomas says. She says it gently but there’s a warning in it too.

  He sighs and puts it down again. ‘Carry on.’ He leans back, his hands behind his head.

  She puts her hands together and closes her eyes. We do the same but I peep through my eyelashes. Mr Thomas just sits there, looking at the ceiling. I half expect him to whistle.

  ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen,’ says Mrs Thomas.
/>   ‘Amen,’ says Ronnie.

  ‘Amen,’ I say.

  Mr Thomas says nothing, just picks the gravy boat back up and gives it to Ronnie. I quickly put my hands over his – I have to help him pour or there’ll be none left for anyone else.

  Ronnie lifts a forkful of beef to his mouth.

  ‘Not yet,’ I mutter. ‘Wait till everyone’s got gravy.’

  The fork hovers an inch from his lips, eyes following the gravy boat, until we’ve all taken our turn.

  ‘Our nan never makes food like this,’ Ronnie says, shovelling carrots into his mouth and dribbling gravy on his chin. Mrs Thomas gets up, takes a cloth from a drawer and wipes the gravy off. I want to say he can wipe his own chin but I don’t.

  ‘Gwen’s the best cook in South Wales,’ Mr Thomas says, like he really does know all the cooks in South Wales.

  Mrs Thomas pretends to be embarrassed. I say nothing. This is probably the best meal I’ve ever had but I’m not going to let them know that.

  ‘Boys,’ she says, ‘I have some news about school.’

  Ronnie and me glance at each other.

  ‘I was talking to Margaret Bevan this morning, she’s the lady who brought you up from the station—’

  ‘The one who smells like Nan?’ Ronnie asks.

  The Thomases look confused.

  ‘Lavender and peppermints,’ I mutter.

  Mrs Thomas smiles and carries on, ‘Anyway, she said there’s been a problem with the pipes in St Michael’s church hall. They were going to use it for your lessons, you see, there’s no room at the school.’

  ‘So what’s happening instead?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing. For now. It’s going to be a few weeks until it’s fixed so you’re having an extra-long summer holiday.’

  ‘Jimmy! No school!’ Ronnie beams.

  I don’t beam. In Islington, this would have been great – cricket in the park with Duff, helping Dad at the garage – but what good are longer holidays in the middle of nowhere?

  ‘The only other places would be the chapel hall or the institute,’ Mrs Thomas carries on, ‘but they’re being used for the war effort. Although, if you ask me, children going to school should be a priority over Hilda Ringrose and Ruth Evans knitting socks for soldiers just to make themselves look good.’ She stops suddenly, covering her mouth.

  Mr Thomas pats her arm. ‘Another few weeks won’t turn the boys into dunces, Gwen.’

  ‘What will Miss Badhew do?’ asks Ronnie.

  ‘Mrs Bevan has asked Miss Goodhew,’ Mrs Thomas says, but she’s smiling a bit, ‘to join her in the WVS.’

  ‘Margaret Bevan’s one of the nice ones,’ Mr Thomas says. ‘Your teacher is safe.’

  ‘Yeah, but she won’t fit in with the nice ones,’ I say.

  His forehead wrinkles like Dad’s does when he’s concentrating on the crossword. He waves his fork at me. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  Ronnie sits up. ‘My brother doesn’t like Miss Goodhew because she gave him the cane. Right across his pams.’ He holds up his hands.

  ‘Palms, Ronnie.’ I cut into my Yorkshire pudding. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘That sort of thing’s never nothing,’ Mr Thomas says. ‘It’s a weak adult who gets their power from hitting a child.’

  I remember the sting of the birch on my hands. The shame of the tears I couldn’t stop. Mr Thomas is right.

  I scoop some gravy on to a piece of cabbage, thinking about it all and feeling lost. We’re just finishing up when Ronnie sighs.

  ‘Mr Thomas?’ he says, a question in his voice. I get a worried feeling about what he’s going to say. Mr Thomas puts down his knife and fork and leans across the table.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why didn’t you say grace?’

  ‘Ronnie!’ I splutter. A piece of cabbage flies out of my mouth on to the table. I pick it up, embarrassed. ‘It’s none of our business. And anyway, you should’ve had your eyes closed.’

  Mr Thomas watches me for a second. I get the feeling he knows I was peeping too. He fixes his coal-black eyes on Ronnie.

  ‘Davies up at Top Farm raised the cow, I grew the vegetables, Gwen cooked the meal.’

  Ronnie frowns. ‘Didn’t God help at all?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Alun, please, not now,’ Mrs Thomas says. ‘Boys, finish your dinner. Then I’ll tell you what you can do while –’ she glances at her husband – ‘I’m at chapel this evening.’

  ‘Aren’t you going, Uncle Alun?’ Ronnie asks.

  Uncle Alun? Where’d he get that from?

  Mr Thomas smiles. ‘Oh, I’m beyond redemption,’ he says in his low, deep voice. He gets up from the table, kisses the top of Mrs Thomas’s head and walks out of the back door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SNAP

  After washing up, Mrs Thomas passes me a mug of tea.

  ‘Take it out to Alun, will you?’ she says.

  The back door is open and I can hear Mr Thomas grunting as he digs. I look at the steaming mug and then back at her. I don’t want to but I go out anyway. I’m just over the doorstep when Ronnie calls her ‘Aunty Gwen’ again. I kick hard at a stone; it pings off the garden wall and hits a flowerpot. Good, I hope I’ve cracked it.

  I walk around the side of the house to the vegetable plots. Mr Thomas leans on his spade, staring into space. He doesn’t seem to know I’m there until I’m right next to him, holding out the mug. He nods a thank you but takes it without looking at me.

  There are chickens scratching the ground in that little pen – four of them, all fat and fluffed up. Next to it, the wind moves the flowered roof of the air-raid shelter.

  ‘Gwen,’ Mr Thomas says.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Gwen reckons a garden’s not a garden without flowers.’ He blows on his tea, then takes a drink.

  ‘We’ve got a garden. People think London’s all concrete and grey but it isn’t. My nan’s trying to grow some veg in case we get rationed but she’s not very good at it. Not like my grandad, he had an allotment.’ I stop. I can’t believe I just told him all that.

  ‘Hasn’t he got it any more?’ Mr Thomas asks.

  ‘He died.’

  ‘There’s a lot of that about … and more coming.’

  I push some soil around with my foot. ‘Did you build it? The shelter, I mean.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like other ones I’ve seen.’

  ‘That’s because it’s not from a kit.’

  I’ve never heard of a really home-made air-raid shelter. It looks brilliant. I want to ask him about it – like how he made it, if he drew up plans first, how long it took – but then he might think I want to be here. I look at the rhubarb for a minute, then go back inside.

  I glance up from a Dandy comic. The clock on the mantelpiece says ten past two. Usually, on a Sunday afternoon, I’d be helping Dad strip an engine or tidy his toolbox, getting mucky and laughing about how much Nan would complain. Or I’d be messing about with Duff. I wonder again where he’s staying. If there’s no school tomorrow I won’t see him there either. I’m not going to miss lessons, but I do miss having my best mate next to me.

  Through the open kitchen door, I can see Ronnie and Mrs Thomas at the table playing snap. She leans sideways and smiles at me. ‘Want to play? I can deal you in after this game. It looks like your brother’s going to win soon, anyway.’

  Ronnie’s pile of cards is huge next to her small one.

  ‘I won all these, Jimmy!’ He picks them up and waves them in the air. They fly out of his hand and fall all over the place. He jumps down, laughing as he picks them up.

  ‘That’s what happens when you let him win,’ I say to Mrs Thomas. ‘He gets silly.’

  ‘She didn’t let me win!’ Ronnie shouts. Then he looks at her small pile of cards, still neatly stacked on the table. ‘You didn’t, did you, Aunty Gwen?’

  She flashes me a look like she’s annoyed, then turns back to
him. ‘Of course not, bach, I’m no match for you.’

  Ronnie narrows his eyes at me. ‘See?’

  Idiot. I pick up the Dandy again. Mrs Thomas tells Ronnie to go and see what Mr Thomas is doing in the garden. She stands in the doorway. I lift the comic up in front of my face, like Mr Thomas did with his newspaper.

  Her voice is quiet. ‘Was there any need for that?’

  I ignore her.

  ‘Jimmy, please put the comic down so I can speak to you.’

  I turn the page, not really seeing what’s on it but pretending to be gripped by the latest adventures of Korky the Cat.

  She sighs. ‘I know this is hard for you, bach, you don’t want to be here, you miss your family, but …’

  I turn another page. She keeps on.

  ‘If you’re going to take it out on anyone, don’t let it be your little brother. He’s just trying to make the best of things – and he’s only six.’

  I want to scrunch the Dandy up into a ball and throw it, but I take a deep breath and put it down instead.

  ‘I know how old he is, he’s my brother.’

  Just then, there’s a knock on the front door. We look at each other for a second before she steps past me and out to the passage. I hear a boy’s voice, and for one stupid second I think – I hope – it’s Duff, but this voice is Welsh. I get up and put my head around the door frame. It’s Ieuan, the lad from Sunday school. He sees me and waves. I nod my head once.

  Mrs Thomas is speaking now. ‘I’m sure he’d love to but … I don’t know.’ She sighs. ‘He’s only little and doesn’t know his way around yet.’

  ‘He’ll be with me, Gwen. I’ll look after him, I promise.’

  She fiddles with the straps of her pinny. ‘All right then, but you keep a close eye on him. Remember he’s new. Don’t let him wander off.’

  She doesn’t look at me as she passes on her way to the garden. Ieuan calls down the passage. ‘I told Ronnie I’d show him a foxhole. You coming?’