The Valley of Lost Secrets
Page 15
‘Now now, Flossie,’ Uncle Alun says. ‘Even a horror like him doesn’t deserve that.’
Florence’s cheeks go a bit pink.
So Duff’s been sent back home. Good.
‘Will they be evacuated again?’ Ronnie asks.
‘Probably,’ Aunty Gwen says, ‘and perhaps he will have learned his lesson.’
‘I should think he has,’ Uncle Alun says. ‘Don’t mess with Flossie and the boys.’
Florence, Ronnie and me laugh. It’s nice to have her here for dinner.
‘Well, that wasn’t quite what I meant.’ Aunty Gwen can’t help but smile though.
‘Maybe he learned not to be such a stupid pig-face?’ suggests Ronnie.
Florence howls with laughter and we all join in, even Aunty Gwen.
Uncle Alun’s ribs aren’t as sore now. Aunty Gwen says she can tell he’s on the mend because he’s complaining the doctors won’t let him do any digging. I can’t believe it’s been a week since they pulled him out of the pit.
Ronnie’s finished before everyone else and is quietly driving his Dinky van up and down my leg. It tickles and I squirm.
‘What’s up with you?’ Florence asks.
‘He’s got ants in his pants!’ Ronnie squeals.
Aunty Gwen frowns, lifting the cloth and leaning down. ‘Ronnie Travers, how many times have I told you not to bring that van to the table?’
He looks like he’s working that out, then he tries his best doe eyes. ‘I thought it wasn’t allowed on the table.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Ahh, leave him, Gwen,’ Uncle Alun says. ‘He’s doing no harm.’
He holds out his hand and my little brother drives the van along it.
‘Do this,’ Ronnie says, showing his palm. Uncle Alun copies. Ronnie puts his own little hand underneath Uncle Alun’s and squeezes it so it makes a dip, then he drives his van up the hairy arm. ‘Now I’m driving through the valley and up the mountains.’
He says it with such a Welsh accent that we all laugh.
Uncle Alun watches the yellow van. ‘It’s good for a little fella to have a toy he loves,’ he says quietly. He looks at Aunty Gwen and she nods. He gets up and leaves the kitchen.
‘Where’s he gone?’ Ronnie asks.
Aunty Gwen shakes her head and smiles. ‘You’ll see.’
When he comes back, Uncle Alun is holding a flat red box. He sits down, lays it on the table and lifts the lid. Inside, a label says Types of the British Army no. 102.
‘Soldiers!’ Ronnie cries.
‘You can play with them for as long as you’re here … and maybe after the war too.’ He glances at Aunty Gwen, whose eyes are shining with tears. ‘If you’d like to come and visit us.’
I can’t stop myself. I push back my chair, leap up, and wrap my arms around him. He puts a hand over one of mine and squeezes.
Ronnie pokes a finger in the empty space in the cardboard box where the drummer used to be.
Uncle Alun watches. ‘I know there’s one missing, but …’
‘It’s not missing,’ I say. ‘We know where it is.’
Aunty Gwen let us off the washing-up because we’ve helped so much in the garden this past week. Florence, Ronnie and me are almost at the end of Heol Mabon when we hear voices from around the corner – and the sharp clip-clop of shoes.
‘Jack and his father!’ I grab Ronnie and Florence, and we stop to listen.
‘What’s the matter now?’ says Reverend Evans.
‘Nothing, I’m just tying my shoelace.’
‘Well, hurry up about it. Mrs Maddock will be waiting.’
Mrs Maddock? Nosy old tortoise-next-door Mrs Maddock?
‘But Dad,’ Jack whines. ‘I don’t want to read the scriptures to her. She’s ancient and her house smells like sprouts.’
He has to sit with her and read the Bible! Fantastic!
‘Don’t question my judgement, boy. And I’m taking you right to the door. You’re not sneaking off with those oafs like last time.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘Don’t lie to me. Mrs Maddock told me you didn’t turn up.’
The clip-clop of the vicar’s shoes starts again. Any second now they’ll see us. Ronnie’s got a fierce look on his face. He’s got some guts, my little brother.
‘I didn’t sneak off with the twins.’ Jack sounds more cross than whiny now. ‘They aren’t allowed to play with me any more.’
‘Good! Keep you away from temptation. Just look at how that Duffy boy corrupted you! Too easily led, you are, you need to grow a backbone.’
Easily led? Reverend Evans is easily fooled, more like.
‘Shamed me, you have, Jack. Shamed me to the core. Thou shalt not steal, and what do you do? Pilfer like a street urchin!’
They both stop with a jolt when they come round the corner. Florence, Ronnie and me spread out, blocking the pavement. It isn’t planned; it’s instinct.
I shove my hands deep into my pockets and look Jack’s dad square in the eye. ‘Afternoon, Rev.’
His lips move but no words come out. I think he might explode.
‘What’s that you’re trying to say?’ Florence stares right at him. ‘Could it be an apology for accusing us of stealing the collection money?’
Reverend Evans’s eyes bulge, and he splutters, a bit of spit coming out of his mouth.
‘Yuck!’ Ronnie says to Jack. ‘Your dad just dribbled.’
The vicar pushes past us, grabbing Jack by the collar and dragging him up the street.
‘No?’ Florence calls after them. ‘Maybe tomorrow? I’ll be in the shop.’
Ronnie and me laugh. Phyllis has banned Jack’s family from D. Hughes Ltd.
‘Florence, you’re brilliant!’ Ronnie wraps his arms around her waist and she cuddles him. ‘Isn’t she, Jimmy?’
‘She is,’ I say. Ronnie opens his arms, inviting me to join in. I step back. ‘Get lost, she’s not that brilliant.’
I lead the way across the Bryn, over the fence and up the sloping field, my legs not aching at all.
We sit on the gate with the tree at our backs, three in a row with Ronnie in the middle. Patches of the mountain are turning brown and red. Autumn is definitely here. I pull my coat around me. ‘We had a letter from our dad this morning.’
‘Did you?’ Florence says. ‘What did he write?’
‘The usual – how he’s missing us, Nan’s making us up a parcel, no bombs on Islington yet.’
‘Do you miss him too?’
I think for a minute. ‘Yeah, but it’s getting easier.’ I hadn’t realised that until now. ‘He said he hopes we aren’t finding the countryside dull.’
‘Well …’ She giggles, scrunching up her face. ‘Nothing much has happened so far.’
We grin at each other over Ronnie’s head.
Florence looks out towards the coal tips. ‘No one writes to me.’ But she doesn’t sound sad.
‘I’ll write you a letter, Florence,’ Ronnie says. ‘I can spell your name now, Uncle Alun’s been teaching me.’
‘Has he?’ She beams.
‘Yes, and it’s properly Florence, not Flossie.’
‘Only Alun calls me Flossie,’ she says.
I point to a bare patch of earth further along the hedgerow. ‘Why don’t you show her, Ronnie? Use a stick to write her name.’
‘Yes!’ He jumps off the gate, stumbles, and falls on his backside. He makes a big show of rolling down the field before getting up and laughing. A lot of things have changed but not how daft my little brother is.
Florence gets down and takes his hand. They go in search of a good writing stick.
I stand and balance on the gate, looking at the tree, like the day I found the skull. Uncle Alun says we can plant some flowers, like on the top of the shelter. I turn and look out over Llanbryn. Coal tips and houses stuck on the side of a mountain might be a different type of countryside, but it’s my type of countryside now. A deep whistle sounds through the valley and smok
e puffs up in thick clouds. The train picks up speed, on its way out of Wales and into England.
Without me.
But that’s all right.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To the wonderful team at Bloomsbury Children’s, especially my incredible editor Zöe Griffiths, for allowing me time to settle and grow, for helping to shape my story into the best it can be, and for always telling me I can do this.
Fliss Stevens for overseeing edits with such skill and patience. And to Beatrice Cross and Jade Westwood – a Publicity and Marketing dream team.
David Dean and Jet Purdie for interpreting my words so beautifully and creating illustrations, lettering and a cover I absolutely love.
Amber Caravéo, you are everything I hoped to find in an agent: the perfect mix of talent, kindness, tenacity and Duranie.
Julia Green and all the brilliant tutors and students of the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University. Particular thanks to my manuscript tutor Janine Amos, who loved Jimmy from the very start, and to Steve Voake for the little task which grew into this whole book. Special thanks to Becca Moses-Paterson and Kel Duckhouse for being my MA girls.
Emma Carroll and Perdita Cargill for the belief and huge laughs, and James Nicol for cake and chat and writing days.
Katherine Richards, Matt Farrell, Lesley and Alan Hoskins, Julie du Plessis, Maureen Neal, Tarnjit Tiyur, Tim Wagg, Christine Oscroft and the Hutchessons for believing in me before this all really began.
Abi Elphinstone, Julie Pike, Nicci Rodie and Kirsty Applebaum for wisdom and friendship – and also to Kirsty’s parents, Alan and Janice Whittle, for the evacuee chat and the best quiche ever.
The Richardsons – Debbie, Robert, Charlotte, Tom and Louis – your love and support mean the world.
Cathryn Norris and Jo Clarke for always being there, and Lee Newbery for being lush (mun).
The Maltese Tenor, Joseph Calleja, for making even the tricky writing days better with your beautiful voice.
All the lovely children I have taught, but especially those of Stonebroom, Silverhill and Tupton Primary Schools.
Deborah Girling, for everything.
Jon, I couldn’t have done this without you. You’re my Alun Thomas and I love you.
Q&A WITH THE AUTHOR
1.The Valley of Lost Secrets is your first novel. Did you always want to be a writer? How did you begin?
When I was a child, I was always writing stories and poems. As a teen, I had many pen pals, so I wrote lots of letters, some of which included stories about my favourite band, Duran Duran. I suppose it would be called fan fiction today. Then life took over and the writing got a bit lost. In 2011, I decided to return to it and threw myself into becoming an author. I went to creative-writing evening classes and, in 2015, studied for an MA in writing for children. I love learning new things, so it was a dream come true. It’s taken a whole ten years (probably longer than some of you have been alive!) to have my first book published, but it’s been worth every minute.
2.The Valley of Lost Secrets is set during the Second World War. Have you always been interested in that time? What do you find exciting about writing historical fiction?
Sometimes people talk about which era they’d visit if they had a time machine, and I’d go back to the Second World War. It’s always been the period which fascinates me most. The months from September 1939 to May 1940 were known as the Phoney War, because not much really happened in terms of fighting. But, for families like Jimmy’s, huge change occurred in the form of evacuation. I enjoyed reading real-life accounts from evacuees, and was lucky to be able to speak to someone who was evacuated to South Wales with his brother – just like Jimmy and Ronnie. I also love the little facts I found out along the way, like how they used to get rid of nits, and that sweets weren’t rationed until 1942. That lasted until 1953 though. All those years with only a small supply of jelly babies – imagine that!
3.You also set the story in Wales, where you grew up. How important was it to you to bring alive both that country and that kind of community for readers?
My own village, Cwmafan, is known locally as the Land of the Moving Curtains, which will give you some idea of how everyone knows everyone else – and their business! This might sound like a bad thing, but mostly it was lovely and friendly and, as I grew up, I knew I belonged. Yet for Jimmy, moving to Llanbryn is difficult and, even though he and Ronnie live with kind people, he feels very much an outsider. He experiences the two sides of valley life: the people who gossip and judge, and those who care and open their homes and their hearts to the children from London. This is a story where Jimmy learns that he belongs too.
4.What kind of books do you like to read? Do you have any favourite authors?
I choose books to suit my mood and can leave a longed-for story on my shelf for ages, waiting for just the right moment to dive in. I’m patient like that – I never peeped at Christmas presents either! I read a lot of books for children and teenagers, and my particular favourite authors are David Almond, Patrick Ness and Emma Carroll. For laughs I enjoy Frank Cottrell-Boyce and Simon James Green.
5.What is your next book about?
Like The Valley of Lost Secrets, the story takes place in a small village, but this time the main character is a Welsh girl called Natty. It’s set in 1920 when the world was still reeling from the impact of the First World War. And Natty has a mystery to solve …
6.What do you like to do when you’re not writing?
I’m a big fan of rugby and can often be found shouting at the TV or watching from behind a stuffed toy dragon when there’s a match on. I also love walking, cooking, seeing friends and, of course, reading.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lesley grew up in South Wales and now lives in England with her husband and their rescue cat, Angharad. She shares her time between writing stories, teaching at a primary school and tutoring adults. Apart from books, rugby union is her favourite thing in the world, especially if Wales is winning. Lesley graduated with distinction from Bath Spa University’s MA in Writing for Young People. The Valley of Lost Secrets is her first novel.
@WelshDragonParr
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First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
This electronic edition published in 2021
Text copyright © Lesley Parr, 2021
Illustrations copyright © David Dean, 2021
Lesley Parr and David Dean have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author and Illustrator of this work
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ISBN: PB: 978-1-5266-2052-1; eBook: 978-1-5266-2050-7
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