The Valley of Lost Secrets

by Lesley Parr

  I can’t believe I was ever friends with him.

  ‘So why did you want us to come up here?’ Florence asks.

  ‘There’s no one nosing around,’ I say. ‘I’m fed up of half the flaming village thinking I’m a thief. We need to put a stop to it.’

  Ronnie licks honey off the back of his hand. ‘How?’

  ‘We expose the real culprit—’

  Florence opens her mouth but I cut in. ‘And yes – before you say it – we all know you’d make a brilliant detective blah blah blah, but let me finish …’

  Her mouth snaps shut and she pulls a face.

  I ignore her. ‘It’s got to be Jack. Look at the evidence: he’s the one with easy access to the collection money. He hates us. He’s sly and spiteful and would love to make evacuees look bad, especially me. I wish we could make people see I’m not the thief as easily as Duff believed there was a parachutist.’

  ‘The trouble is, not everyone around here is as thick as Tommy Duffy,’ Florence says.

  ‘There must be a way. Come on, Florence – you are good at working things out.’

  ‘Very true.’ She gets up and wanders around in front of us, tapping her head and frowning. Oh heck, she’s getting silly and dramatic again. She’s about three paces away when there’s a loud creaking noise from above.

  Then a crack.

  There’s no time to even shout a warning. The branch whacks Florence on top of the head and she hits the ground with a horrible thud.

  Ronnie squeals. We leap up and rush to her.

  Florence rolls around, holding her ankle. There’s blood on her face and a rip in her dress. She’s breathing in and out through her teeth but she’s not crying. Ronnie is though. On the ground next to her is a really big branch. One end is spiky where it snapped off the tree. How the heck did that happen? Ronnie whimpers and drops to his knees, taking her hand. I crouch next to them.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she says, waving me away and looking at Ronnie. ‘Are you?’

  He nods through his tears. ‘But you’re not, Florence. Your head’s bleeding.’

  ‘Oh.’ She wipes her fingers over her forehead. ‘Where?’ She sits up and ducks her head towards me. I scratch around in her hair like the nit nurse and think of all the times it was crawling and jumping. She jerks when I find the cut. It isn’t very big but the lump’s going to be a whopper.

  ‘You got a hanky?’ I ask.

  She digs in her pocket and passes it to me. I fold it into a pad.

  ‘Here.’ I lay it on top of the cut, take her hand and put her fingers on it. ‘Press down.’

  ‘Ow!’ She screws up her face. So does Ronnie but at least he’s stopped crying.

  ‘Sorry.’ I point at the branch. ‘Look at the size of that! Florence, you were flipping lucky, then.’

  ‘I don’t feel very lucky.’ She looks at it, then up at the tree, wincing as she does. There’s a sharp, jagged stump poking out of the trunk. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know, it just … broke.’

  ‘Oh no, no,’ she whispers, smoothing out her dress to look at the tear. ‘It’s ruined.’

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ I say, getting up. ‘It’ll patch.’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘She means the shop,’ Ronnie says.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Come on, then.’

  ‘No.’ Florence waves an arm at the bottle and bread bag. ‘Pick up our rubbish first.’

  Crikey, even when she’s bleeding, she’s bossy.

  Ronnie grabs them as Florence tries to stand, but she only just gets off the ground. Her knees buckle and she’s back down again. I hold out my hand. She takes it and I help her up.

  ‘You’re going to have to lean on me,’ I say. ‘Put your arm round my shoulders.’

  Florence looks more horrified than when she first held the skull. I try to give her a hard stare, like she does to me, but it just makes her laugh. I let go and she wobbles on one leg.

  ‘Look,’ I say, getting fed up now. ‘either put your arm round my shoulders or hop down this flaming mountain on your own.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  A PROPER EGG

  It takes us ages to reach Florence’s street. We pass Jack’s mother and Miss Goodhew; they’re on the other side of the Bryn and don’t cross it to help. Instead they watch us with suspicion.

  ‘Is there a lump yet?’ I ask. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  Florence stops and lifts the hanky. It sticks a bit with the drying blood. ‘Ooow.’

  ‘Blimey, it’s a proper egg!’

  She puts the hanky back over the wound and I think about how fast that branch fell. There was no warning, just a bit of a creak, and BAM! It hit her.

  Florence frowns and ferrets about in her hair.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I say.

  ‘M-m-my ribbon!’ She splutters like an old engine. ‘My ribbon’s gone!’

  ‘Is that all? I thought your head was splitting open or something.’

  ‘I have to find it.’ She turns quickly and wobbles again. Good job I’ve got her.

  ‘What are you doing? It’s only a ribbon.’

  Her face crumples. ‘I’ve never had a ribbon before.’

  ‘But you live in a shop, there must be miles of ribbon in there! I bet Phyllis will let you have a new one.’

  ‘You don’t understand – I want my ribbon.’

  ‘All right, if you two can get to the shop from here I’ll go back,’ I say. ‘Blimey, Florence, sometimes you can be such a girl.’

  Florence’s ribbon is where she fell, next to the branch and the blood. I slip it into my pocket and head back.

  I haven’t got far when I spot three boys further down the mountain, wading through the stream. A smaller, skinnier boy stands on the bank, waving his arms about and looking fed up.

  Jack and his gang.

  I duck behind a clump of bushes. It’s obvious Jack’s giving orders. Gareth and Aled are bending over, sweeping their arms around in the water as if they’ve lost their soap in the bath. Duff’s shuffling around near the bank, staring hard into the stream.

  Suddenly there’s a shout and a huge splash as Gareth disappears, resurfacing a second later, drenched and shaking his head like a dog.

  I try not to laugh too loud.

  ‘I can’t see! I can’t see!’ Gareth wails. ‘The German must have put poison in the water!’

  ‘You’ve lost your glasses, you idiot!’ Jack shouts.

  ‘Aww, Gar,’ Aled yells, ‘Mam’s gunna kill you!’

  I leave Jack and his gang arguing over whether it’s more important to find the skull of a German parachutist or Gareth’s specs.

  *

  I run along the street and into the shop. Ieuan’s behind the counter.

  ‘Mam’s got Dr Jenkins here,’ he says, waving me through. ‘They’re in the kitchen.’

  Florence sits on a chair with her leg up on a pouffe, sipping from a steaming mug. Ronnie’s on the rug in front of the range with Noble.

  ‘Look, Jimmy!’ He beams, holding up his own mug. ‘Fancy having Horlicks in the daytime!’

  The doctor shines a little torch into Florence’s eyes. ‘A branch fell on you, you say?’

  She nods, then winces.

  Phyllis comes in with some cushions and puts them behind Florence’s back. She smiles at me. ‘I’ll do you a Horlicks now in a minute. Just getting my girl comfy first.’

  ‘Her pupils are fine, Phyllis,’ Dr Jenkins says, ‘but you’ll have to watch out for concussion. Don’t let her drop off for the next few hours and if she gets really sleepy, feels sick or has a bad headache then call me.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. It’s so good of you to come out on a Sunday.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He smiles at Florence, then glances at the ribbon in my hand. ‘That’ll need a boil wash before it goes near that wound. Germs, see.’

  ‘Jimmy, you found it!’ Florence looks like I brought her a diamond, not a dirty, bloody ri
bbon.

  Phyllis spoons powder into a mug. ‘You’re a good boy, Jimmy.’

  Florence takes the ribbon and grins at me. ‘He’s not bad.’

  ‘Wych elms do that, you know.’ Ieuan’s leaning against the door frame. ‘Drop their branches without warning.’

  ‘There’s a witch?’ Ronnie squeaks.

  ‘Not witch like a spooky witch.’ Ieuan laughs and waggles his fingers. ‘W-Y-C-H. Was it a wych elm?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Did the leaves have jagged edges?’

  Phyllis hands me my Horlicks. ‘Honestly, Ieuan, how are they supposed to know? The girl’s lucky she doesn’t have a big dent in her skull and you’re on about leaves!’

  Florence looks at me and I know what she’s thinking. This might be a very big clue.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  NYE

  Mrs Thomas stirs sugar into a big mug of tea. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and sighs. I think she’s still upset about Ronnie going missing. Since we rescued him, Mr Thomas has been spending even more time in the garden and not saying much. Maybe it’s too much trouble to have us here after all.

  ‘Is that for Mr Thomas?’ I ask, putting down the letter I’m writing to Dad and Nan. ‘I’ll take it out to him.’

  I have to do this for my little brother’s sake. I have to know what Reverend Evans meant about Ronnie being safe ‘this time’. Even though there’s no way Jack will get him again. Not with Florence and me to watch out for him.

  Mrs Thomas hands the mug to me. She looks tired. ‘That’s very kind. Thank you, Jimmy. Then I can get on with the cleaning.’

  ‘Ronnie’ll help,’ I say. He looks up from the floor, where he’s driving his Dinky van in and out of the chair legs.

  ‘But I’m making a racetrack,’ he says.

  ‘That can wait. Earn your keep.’

  She smiles at me and mouths, ‘Thank you.’ I smile back.

  Mr Thomas said he was going out to earth up the leeks but he’s sitting on the bench now, his hands black from the soil. Mrs Thomas never gets at him for his dirty nails like Mum used to get at Dad. He’s looking up at the mountain.

  ‘I brought you a cuppa.’ I’m glad of something to say, something to cut through the odd feeling hanging in the air.

  ‘Good lad.’

  Mr Thomas takes the mug. I don’t move.

  ‘Want something, boy?’ he says.

  Say it, Jimmy. Just ask him. ‘What are they?’ I point at the dark green leaves of the potato plants. Stupid.

  Mr Thomas frowns and half smiles. ‘Potatoes. Same as they were when you dug some up for your tea last night.’

  I grind my shoe into the path.

  ‘What do you really want?’ he asks, tapping the bench next to him. I sit. He drinks and waits.

  I stare straight ahead as if vegetables are the most fascinating things in the world. ‘What did Reverend Evans mean when he said “this time”? He said Ronnie was safe this time.’

  Mr Thomas runs a finger around the rim of his mug. ‘He said that, did he?’

  ‘Yes.’ I stop myself from saying You know he did. ‘Was it a threat?’

  He looks shocked. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘He said “this time” like there’d be a next time, that Ronnie might not come back next time. Like Jack will kidnap him again and we won’t get him back!’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. Cedwyn Evans isn’t a good man. But even he wouldn’t allow …’ Mr Thomas draws in a big breath and holds it for a long time. ‘It was a dig at me. You see, I had a little brother.’

  I sit up and stare right at him.

  ‘Nye, his name was. Short for Aneurin, you know.’

  I don’t.

  ‘But it was a bit of a mouthful so we called him Nye.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’

  ‘He went missing when we were boys.’

  Suddenly, horribly, I understand what Reverend Evans meant. ‘Did he come home?’

  Mr Thomas’s words are like a sigh. ‘No, Jimmy, he didn’t come home.’

  ‘Not ever?’

  ‘Not ever.’

  A beetle crawls along the arm of the bench. I watch it and wait for Mr Thomas to tell me what happened.

  ‘We were typical brothers,’ Mr Thomas says. ‘Closer in age than you and Ronnie though. I was three when Nye was born. He was really funny – always made me laugh, he did, even if I was in a bad mood. He was a happy little thing.’

  ‘Like Ronnie,’ I say.

  He nods. ‘We didn’t have much money, like most people round here, so big presents had to be shared. One Christmas, I think I must have been about seven or eight, we got a tin soldier set.’ Mr Thomas twists his wedding ring on his finger. ‘I looked after the set really well and made sure all the figures were back in their box every night. I understood how many extra shifts our dad had worked to pay for it, see. Nye, well, he wasn’t so careful.’

  ‘Did he break it?’

  ‘No, but he took a shine to the drummer and used to play with it on its own. Sometimes he couldn’t remember where he’d left it, and there’d be a big hoo-ha in our house while everyone hunted for it, but we managed to keep the set nice for years.’

  ‘Ronnie lost his Dinky van on holiday once – that’s why he isn’t allowed to take it outside.’

  ‘A sensible rule.’ Mr Thomas takes one last big swig of tea and puts his mug on the bench. ‘Then, one afternoon after rugby training, I heard noises coming from the coal bunker. I wasn’t surprised to find Nye in there – he had a habit of curling up in small spaces when he was tired or upset. Our mam would often find him asleep in the ottoman, or under a chair, wrapped up in that candlewick bedspread from your room.’

  He shakes his head and smiles in a sad way.

  ‘Black as the night he was. I can still see the streaks down his face where his crying had washed off the coal dust. He’d taken the little toy drummer up the mountain and on the way home it’d poured with rain so he ran. When he got home it wasn’t in his pocket.’

  ‘Were you cross?’ I ask.

  Mr Thomas rubs his eyes. ‘I dragged him out, coal dust and all, and made him retrace his steps. Up and down we went, till he’d cried off most of the dust and my temper was higher than the top of the mountain. By now it was past teatime but I told him to keep looking while I went home. Sausage and mash, it was …’

  He blinks.

  ‘I never saw him again. Weeks later, when the police had almost given up searching and my mam’s heart was broken beyond fixing, a really young constable knocked our door. I watched from the stairs. He didn’t say anything, just handed Nye’s cap to my father. My mam’s legs gave way and my father caught her as she fell into a dead faint. That was the end of it. No more searching. The police said he must have run away, that they’d have found a body by now. That finished my mam, that did, the word “body”.’

  I don’t know what to say so I just stare at the vegetables again.

  ‘But he wouldn’t have run away, I know that much. Yeah, we argued that day, but it wasn’t unusual. Like I said, typical brothers. It wasn’t enough to make him leave. The police got that wrong.’

  Now things make sense; the way Mr Thomas ran out all dirty and scared when Ronnie was missing. What Reverend Evans said.

  ‘Do you think Nye’s still alive?’ I ask, hoping like mad, wishing so hard for it to be true.

  He hangs his head, his voice a low mumble. ‘Can’t see how he can be, not after all this time.’

  I feel like I want to reach out, pat his arm or something. But I don’t.

  He turns to face me, his eyes watery. Black coals in little pools. ‘It’s the not knowing that gets you, Jimmy. I just want to know he’s at peace.’ He sees my confused look. ‘Oh, not in heaven or that sort of thing. Just that his … his remains … aren’t in a ditch somewhere. I can’t stand the thought of him all alone in the place where he died.’

  I take a big breath. ‘So when Reverend Evans sa
id that about Ronnie, he was talking about Nye?’

  I can’t believe anyone could be so cruel.

  ‘He was. Cedwyn Evans doesn’t like people who don’t think the way he does. And you already know I’m not the God-fearing type. My mam was though. She’d always gone to St Michael’s, always said her prayers.’

  ‘St Michael’s? I thought your family would be chapel, like Mrs Thomas.’

  He smiles but it looks tight and makes his lips thin. ‘Church, chapel … Didn’t make a difference though, did it? It didn’t bring my brother home. That’s when Mam stopped going, lost her faith completely. The vicar at the time respected that, left us alone with our grief, but when Cedwyn arrived it was a different story. He took against us straight away because Mam left the church, said we were sinners. So when he heard about Nye he saw that as his opportunity to have a go.’

  Anger at Reverend Evans bubbles inside me but I say nothing.

  ‘It isn’t difficult in a place like this to start up rumours. Especially when the rumours are about the Thomases.’ He must see the look on my face because he almost laughs. ‘You must have heard them talking, Jimmy. Seen the looks they give us. In this valley, being a Thomas is a bad thing to some people. Do you remember what I said about black sheep and Florence’s family?’

  I nod, feeling my cheeks burn.

  ‘Well, we aren’t so different, me and Flossie. It’s hard though, to shake off a tag like that. Especially round here when a preacher’s the one making sure it keeps going.’

  I think about what the women said at the welcome party – if the reverend says so, it must be true.

  ‘Cedwyn has always made out that I had something to do with my brother going missing.’

  ‘That’s terrible!’

  ‘It is. But it doesn’t matter what anyone else says, really. They can’t punish me more than I punish myself. I made Nye stay up there.’

  ‘Mr Thomas, it’s not your fault!’

  He shakes his head and I want to put my arms around him like I did with Dad after Mum left.