The sound of a slow, heavy lorry coming up the lane was unusual. She smiled as she thought that it might be Johnny’s bus. ‘But ’e wouldn’t dare,’ she whispered to the dogs, her crooked teeth showing in a grin. She hurried up the path to lean on the decorated gate to see a lorry pass.
It was an open-backed lorry with the name of Harry Beynon on its sides. Trestle tables and benches and lots of wooden chairs were stacked on board. Some chairs were folded and arranged in rows. Others were in pairs, seats together and all were tied with ropes.
‘Come on, boys,’ Nelly called to the dogs, and she set off to follow.
It was the day before the party and Nelly was soon involved with the people already there, carrying an endless variety of items to their selected places. She stayed for the rest of the day, unloading furniture, setting out chairs and moving things here and there as instructions were counteracted and argued about by several of the organisers. Bert Roberts who had been in the army and knew all about giving orders was in charge. ‘Or so ’e thinks!’ Nelly muttered.
There was a lot of excitement and laughter when Harry Beynon’s lorry returned with a piano on the back, being played by Barclay Bevan! He watched as the instrument was off-loaded and placed near the castle walls, where the choir was going to sing.
Several stalls were already completed and Harry’s men were finishing off several others. Phil Davies was marking out the lines for the races with a marking trolley borrowed from the cricket ground. Music was issuing from a van, also belonging to Harry’s firm. This Nelly went to investigate. She found her son-in-law winding up a gramophone and selecting some music for the following day.
‘Why ain’t you at school?’ she challenged. ‘Not mitchin’ are yer?’
‘Hello, mother-in-law. Have you a favourite dance tune?’
Nelly climbed into the van and searched through the 78s, putting aside several which she wanted to be included.
‘Ere, Johnny,’ she shouted. ‘Come an’ choose a smoochy record fer you an’ Fay!’
‘Don’t know why we bothered to hire a loudspeaker!’ Bert Roberts said. Nelly grinned her appreciation of the compliment.
‘Where’s Oliver an’ Evie then?’ she asked. ‘They’re missin’ all the fun.’
‘Oliver is at school. I’ve popped over in my lunch hour. Evie says he can come early tomorrow. He says you and he have planned to spend the whole day here.’
‘That’s right. We’re ’elpin’ with the decorations. Tell ’im to come straight after breakfast.’
‘I will. Goodbye, mother-in-law.’
‘Timmy,’ she said sadly. ‘Can’t you call me Nelly? Everyone else does.’
‘I’ll try.’
She watched as he carefully put the records in the van, each pile labelled, neatly arranged for the following day. She felt hot and grubby and thought she would paddle her feet in the stream before going home. But Tim looked the same as always; his straight hair parted and in place, his clothes looking as if they had just been bought and put on.
Timothy was a pale, studious man, hardly raising his voice above a whisper in normal conversation. His face, with its worried look and washed out blue eyes never became animated. It was as if, Nelly thought with a smile, he knew life had some dreadful shock prepared for him and he lived in constant expectation of it.
‘Cheer up, Timmy,’ she shouted. ‘Tomorrow’s going ter be a smashing day.’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t look up from his task as he added, ‘Goodbye, mother-in-law.’
‘Stuffed prune,’ Nelly muttered. She looked around her for some more entertaining company.
Timothy watched her go, waving to her friends as she threaded her erratic passage through those busily working. The dogs bounced about her as if they were on elastic. He could understand why Evie was embarrassed by her. Nelly represented everything Evie hated and had run away from home to escape. Yet Nelly was a harmless old soul, and Oliver seemed to have taken to her. She couldn’t do him any harm, Evie would see to that. He completed the arrangements of records, each pile neatly labelled, and went back to school.
At the other side of the field, Arthur Toogood, Milly’s grandson, slipped out from the place where he had been hiding, hoping the Head hadn’t spotted him. He should be at school, but the temptation of seeing the preparations for the party had been too much for him.
‘You’ll get me hung, young Arthur,’ Milly said with a false frown. ‘Go on with you; he’s gone now.’ Milly turned to her companion, Sibyl Tremain, who followed her about a few paces behind. ‘Terrible boy he is,’ she said proudly. She walked away, Sibyl trotting behind obediently.
Nelly nudged Brenda Roberts and pointed. ‘There they go, Mrs Nogood and the pup!’ The graphic description made the quiet Brenda chuckle. A shout from the other side of the partly erected tent make them both groan.
‘Take up the slack, woman, take up the slack.’ Bert Roberts was organising the setting up of the tents in which the raffle prizes were to be displayed.
‘All right, Bert; I’m doing my best,’ Brenda said. Nelly grimaced, baring her gappy teeth in sympathy, and left them to it.
Phil Davies and Mr Evan, the caretaker of the school staggered up the field carrying boxes and sacks containing decorations made by the school-children. These were seized by Gwen and Emlyn Parry, who began sorting them out into their respective places. Nelly stayed to help, handing up the crowns, and swords, and carefully cut out red dragons to Gwen and her husband who were perched precariously on the planks supported between ladders.
‘I hope it doesn’t rain tonight,’ Nelly shouted and a chorus answered, ‘Shut up, Nelly!’ and made her laugh.
A lorry whined up the lane and the driver, who Nelly recognised as the man who delivered groceries to Amy’s shop, deposited a pile of wooden crates containing pop of assorted colours. Constable Harris waved the helpers back and guided the lorry as it reversed and returned to the lane.
Sian arrived with bags full of bunting which she had made from old dresses and the edges of worn sheets which she and her sisters had dyed in bright colours. Bert and the patient Brenda were now dragging ropes with which they began marking out the space allotted for the races. Prue was there, and she was over-seeing the cleaning of the castle kitchens, and the placing of the trestle-tables ready for the mountains of food to be delivered the following morning.
Everywhere people were laughing. Nelly was so excited she wanted to cry. ‘Bloomin’ lovely, ain’t it, boys,’ she said to the dogs, her voice strangely high and squeaky. ‘Even grizzle-guts herself,’ she nodded towards Prue Beynon, ‘even ’er with a smile – never thought I’d see the day!’
She walked to the stream and kicked off her shoes and sat with her feet in the water, which, coming straight from the hill behind her, was icy cold. She watched the clear ripples in the hope of seeing a darting fish and was lost in a daydream when the dogs barked and woke her. Someone was coming. She turned, a smile ready to greet whoever it was, and was just in time to see a man hesitate, then run back the way he had come. The dark brown overcoat and the trilby were unmistakable. Alan French or whoever it was who looked like him.
Nelly stood up, wiping her feet half-heartedly on her skirt. She remembered the posy of red, white and blue flowers. It hadn’t been a message had it? She clutched her face with horror. Was he telling Fay he would come on the day of the Coronation party?
‘Bloody ’ell,’ she muttered as she began walking back to the castle site. ‘Why can’t the dead stay dead an’ not come back to upset Johnny an’ ’is Fay?’
Chapter Seven
When Nelly woke on the morning of the Coronation party the air was already warm and the day promised to be a good one. She made a trayful of sandwiches as her contribution to the celebrations. She had bought the sliced bread from Amy’s shop and considered it hardly fit to give her chickens. When she was finished, she sat and waited for Oliver. When he arrived he was flushed with hurrying, knowing he was later than they had planned.
‘Come on, dearie. Waited fer hours I ’ave. Where you bin?’ Nelly looked with dismay at the neat little figure, his shirt buttoned up to the neck and the bow tie in place. She pulled it off him and threw it on a chair, opened a few buttons and rolled up his sleeves.
‘Sorry I’m late, Gran. Mother insisted I read to her before I came.’
‘Don’t she think my time’s important then? Eh? Sittin’ ’ere waitin’ while she ’as you doin’ readin’?’ She paused. ‘Ow d’yer get on?’
‘Not bad, but I still can’t remember some words. They won’t stay in my head.’
‘I ain’t surprised with Evie breathin’ down yer neck! Make me forget me own name, your mum would! We’ll get a bit of readin’ done tomorrow, eh? You an’ me ’elpin’ each other.’ She handed him the box of cakes to carry. ‘But now, Ollie me boy, we’re off to enjoy ourselves. Come on, Bobby an’ Spotty.’ They set off up the lane, Nelly staggering under the loaded tray which was covered with a snowy white tea-towel lent to her by Amy when she had bought the bread.
The field and the castle had been transformed. The old walls now painted white were draped with streamers. Union Jacks and the Welsh Dragon were flying from every possible corner and even the trees were wound around with ribbons.
Bert Roberts seemed to be still in command. Nelly saw him shouting instructions at some boys struggling to hang some streamers across the kitchens. Cardboard shields, crowns and swords and daggers were displayed all along the castle walls, and as a centrepiece, a large poster of Queen Elizabeth was slowly being hauled into its chosen place, high on the tower walls.
Nelly had been there until late the previous evening, yet the sight made her gasp. ‘Look at that, Ollie! What d’you think of that!’ She spoke proudly, as if she alone had been responsible for it all.
‘Want a ’and, Bertie?’ she shouted.
‘Don’t talk to me when I’m balanced on a ladder! Got no sense?’ he grumbled.
Nelly looked at Oliver and pulled a face. ‘Sergeant ’e was in the army,’ she explained. ‘Even got stripes sewn on ’is pyjamas!’
Long trestle tables were already spread with white sheets and decorated with jars containing wooden sticks to which red, white and blue streamers had been fastened, one for each child who had paid for the tea. Also at intervals were paper flowers, also in red, white and blue, made by the school children. Above the tables, bunting swung gently in the breeze.
‘It’s like magic, Gran.’
‘Ain’t it just!’
They pushed their way through to the kitchens to deposit their food. Mrs French was cutting sandwiches into small squares, and Evie was helping her. Nelly called to her daughter but only had a slight nod on return. Prue Beynon was chattering away as she arranged the small sandwiches on to plates. Only Mrs French thanked Nelly for her contribution.
Before turning and pushing her way outside, Nelly made another effort to gain a response from Evie. She lifted Oliver up and shouted, ‘’E’s all right, Evie. I got ’im. Be all right with me.’
‘Mind you behave yourself,’ Evie said to her son.
Nelly saw the apologetic expression on Oliver’s face as he promised and her jaw tightened. ‘Why can’t she let the kid ’ave some fun,’ she muttered. She shouted again at her daughter. ‘He’ll ’ave a good time today, don’t you worry.’
Evie looked doubtful. Prue looked at Evie with a sympathetic frown. Nelly poked out a tongue.
* * *
The people already pouring into the field were mostly strangers. As well as the children from the council estate, where Nelly had got to know a number of families as she did the weekly collections, there were small groups of houses where there were insufficient numbers for their own party. These had joined with Hen Carw Parc. Others further afield had heard about the party held in a castle ruin and begged to be included. All had paid their share and had entered the races and some had promised help with the entertainments.
Many families had brought lunchtime picnics and by midday the field was dotted with knots of people circled around blankets and tablecloths set out on the grass. Wasps and bees hummed around jampots. Ants were shaken from skirts and shoes. Grubby fingers reached out for food, then scratched at the irritations caused by the gnats which swarmed around the diners, depositing jam on hot faces.
Children threw off cardigans and shoes and socks, the unwanted clothing folded across the parents’ arms. Youngsters ran barefoot around the stalls, pleading for pennies for the side-shows which hoped to raise money for the N.S.P.C.C. Even fathers loosened their ties and rolled up shirt-sleeves, admitting the sun-warmed air to cool their white skin.
A stall had been placed at the edge of the field, and its shelves filled with old, unwanted china. Mostly the white crockery which had had to suffice during the years of shortages and which was now thankfully discarded.
For a penny, you could pelt it with wooden balls, to ‘Ease your Frustrations’, the banner said. Nelly read it out to Oliver, carefully, syllable by syllable so he could read it too.
‘Could do with a few penn’orth of that every time I sees yer mum,’ Nelly whispered. ‘Rubs me up somethin’ awful she does.’
‘What’s frustrations, Gran?’
‘When you gets mad with something – or someone – and there’s no way of changin’ things. Inside yer, there’s a pot boilin’ over, and peltin’ a ball or two, an’ smashin’ a few dishes is supposed to ’elp. ’Ave a go, why don’t yer?’
She handed him some money and urged him towards the stall. He hesitantly took the balls offered, and stood, wavering between dropping them on the grass and handing them to Nelly.
‘Go on! Don’t stand there like two penn’orth of Gawd- ’elp-us!’ She took one of the balls and threw it at the stall, succeeding in breaking a plate. ‘See? Now you ’ave a go. Go on, get mad. Throw as if you really means it!’
Oliver threw one self-consciously, but the second reached the shelves and then the balls flew fast and china shattered and fell to the ground. The staff holder laughed and collected the largest pieces to replace on the shelves.
‘Needed that did you, boy?’
‘Frustration ain’t just fer the old uns,’ Nelly laughed her loud laugh and led Oliver away. ‘Come over ’ere, young Ollie, there’s something else you got to try.’ She pushed her way through the increasingly thick crowd, dragging Oliver behind her.
Near the entrance, where people were still queueing to pay, or showing their tickets to get in, were some stocks. Phil Davies the postman was firmly fastened in. At his side was Johnny Cartwright, urging people to pay threepence to throw a wet sponge at the prisoner. Buckets of cold water stood temptingly around. Johnny held out large coloured sponges, asking customers to take one and punish Phil for being stupid enough to volunteer.
When things were slack, Johnny himself would pelt the laughing, soaked victim to encourage others to take part.
‘If you miss,’ Johnny warned, ‘I might pick up the sponge and throw it at you!’
‘Got to ’ave a go at this!’ Nelly paid and collected her dripping sponge and threw it, not at Phil, who was tensed waiting for the missile, but at the unsuspecting Johnny. The crowd roared with laughter. Oliver was shocked and put both hands to his face, before realising that it had been taken in good part and he could safely join in the laughter.
It soon became difficult to get to the stalls, but Nelly managed to buy Oliver a turn on the swings, a ride on a pony, a toffee apple and some candy-floss and an ice-cream already melting from a makeshift fridge.
* * *
In the kitchens, the platefuls of sandwiches and cakes were covered with damp tea-towels, waiting for the time to call the children to eat. A flask of tea was being shared between Evie, Prue and Mrs French.
‘I do agree with you, Prue.’ Mrs French nodded agreement as Prue explained how she had persuaded Harry to let her help. ‘I supported Richard whenever I could. He had a full and useful life but he couldn’t have done as much wit
hout my assistance.’
‘You’re talking about outside interests,’ Prue disagreed. ‘I’m talking about Harry’s work. By doing the books for him, he can spend more time at home, which is what he wants.’
‘Richard wasn’t exactly an absentee husband,’ Mrs French admonished gently. ‘He and I did things together. He sang in the choir and I went along too. I organised concerts, with others too, of course. And I helped out in the music shops when someone was ill. I miss him and I miss the involvement. He was such a considerate husband.’
‘Yes,’ Prue said, misunderstanding. ‘Harry’s considerate too. Never bothers me much with – you know.’ Mrs French stifled a smile and glanced at Evie, who also seemed amused.
‘Always done my duty, mind,’ Prue whispered confidentially. ‘He’s never had cause to complain.’
Monica French took out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and hid her laughter in a fit of coughing.
Prue also looked away. How often had she told that lie? Pretended to be satisfied with the little attention Harry gave her? She gazed across to where a group of youngsters gathered around the piano. Children. Everyone had children, except her. Night after night she waited for him, and night after night she slept alone, and unfulfilled.
It wasn’t proper to admit to wanting a man so much, she knew that, but how she envied Amy. Even her brief affairs had been full of love, and had resulted in Freddy and Margaret. She watched the girl touching the keys of the piano, tall, graceful and with such a sweet singing voice. An interest in the piano too it seemed.
If she had been mine, how much more she would achieve. I’d send her to Mrs French for lessons. Very musical, Mrs French. She might be famous one day with the right encouragement. Yet it was Amy, sinful Amy, who had Freddy and Margaret.
Netta Cartwright walked past with a still soaked Johnny and waved at them. Prue stared after them with disapproval on her thin face.
‘Those Cartwrights have got above themselves since Johnny married someone with a bit of style,’ she said. ‘I can’t think what Fay saw in him. Not that she’s anything special. Worked in a chemist’s, her father did.’
A Welcome in the Valley Page 9