A Welcome in the Valley

by A Welcome in the Valley (retail) (epub)

  ‘Oh, er, I, I was looking at it, after seeing young Margaret, my niece. So alike, I thought, and I took the photograph out to compare. Isn’t it amazing? Those lovely eyes, so dark, just like Rosemary and her father. And the hair. She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she, like your daughter is.’ She laughed deprecatingly. ‘Lucky you aren’t the suspicious type, or you wonder about the mystery of Margaret’s father.’ Smiling, Prue let herself out, leaving Monica to stare at the photograph.

  Nelly came in from the hall and took it from her.

  ‘I ’eard enough of that to know what she’s tryin’ to do, dearie. Ignore ’er, the nosy old cow!’

  ‘Nelly!’

  ‘Well, she is! Always on at someone’s reputation she is. Let Johnny ’ear about this an’ ’e’ll ring ’er scraggy neck. ’Ates Prue Beynon ’e does.’ She looked at the photograph and went silent. The likeness was uncanny. ‘Nothing like Margaret!’ she said emphatically. She stuffed the photograph into a kitchen drawer, slammed it shut and dusted her hands, then pulled on her coat and picked up her large leather-cloth bag. ‘Got to go now, dearie. Don’t think no more about it.’ She left, promising to come back the following day to ‘finish off’, and untied the dogs. When she glanced back into the kitchen, Mrs French was holding the photograph and staring into space, her face white.

  Nelly knew it was none of her business, but she told Johnny when she called there later that evening to listen to Educating Archie on the radio. He was just leaving for work, a split shift, he expained. His comment when she told him about the photograph was curious.

  ‘Where can I borrow a set of ladders?’ he asked.

  * * *

  Harry went home and rather than try to find the right moment, went straight to the kitchen, where Prue was putting the finishing touches to his dinner. She was wearing a new dress. Pale blue with a pocket edge and a belt of crochet. Her small mouth was adorned with pink lipstick.

  ‘Prue,’ he said, and something in his voice made her stop what she was doing, and look at him. She usually did not react to his arrival other than to do what was necessary to his meal, but now she waited for him to speak.

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this,’ he said, meeting her gaze. ‘I’m going to leave you. ’

  ‘What?’ She sat down so suddenly that at any other time it would have been comic. ‘You’re out of your mind! Why?’

  ‘I don’t love you.’

  ‘So? You never have. But that hasn’t stopped me being a good wife. You haven’t any complaints.’ There was a slight emphasis on the word you. That, and the coldness in her voice and the calmness in the way she answered him, chilled his blood. ‘Have you?’

  ‘I love someone else.’

  ‘That won’t last. Good housekeeping and good food will.’

  ‘Sorry Prue. I know this is a shock, but it isn’t the sort of thing I can hint about, build up to, or rehearse. I want to move out. The house is yours to keep or to sell. I’ll make any other arrangements that are reasonable.’

  To his surprise, Prue stood up and walked from the room.

  ‘Prue, we have to discuss it.’ He began to follow her, wondering what she was going to do, but she went into the office and came out almost immediately with her arms full of ledgers.

  ‘Discussion is it? I’ll begin the discussion, shall I?’ she said, and threw down a large accounts book filled with her neat writing. ‘Start with this, shall we? Let’s discuss this. It’s my version of your double book-keeping.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ He picked it up and his face drained of colour. Every job he had done in the past two years was entered, both in the way he had set them out for the taxman, and showing his true profits. A list of items, received but not paid for through the usual invoices, was also included. Goods he and some lorry-drivers had made deals on. Cheating the firms who supplied him out of hundreds of pounds. ‘Prue. What is this?’

  ‘If you want to know, then do what you say, leave me, I think the police would find these – concoctions, this – fiction – quite fascinating. Don’t you?’

  It was Harry’s turn to sit down suddenly. ‘You mean you’d show these to the tax office? If I leave you, you’ll use blackmail to stop me?’

  ‘If you left me, I wouldn’t be devastated,’ she said, bitterness making her voice harsh. ‘But I would feel foolish. I can’t bear to feel foolish.’

  ‘That’s something you’ve inflicted on plenty of others. Spreading untrue or half-true stories. It didn’t bother you when others were made to look foolish, or stupid, or embarrassed.’

  ‘They deserved it. I don’t.’

  ‘I – I don’t know what to say to you.’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything to me. Go and explain to her, whoever she is.’ She pushed him. ‘Better go now hadn’t you? Your bit of fluff, or whatever they call it these days, will be waiting with bated breath to hear your news. Tell her now, don’t keep her waiting!’ She picked up the telephone and handed it to him, her eyes like ice.

  He stumbled from the house and walked along the road, unseeing, unhearing, oblivious of the traffic danger as he crossed the road and went through the village passing Amy’s shop without a glance. After more than two hours he became aware that his legs were aching and he searched his pockets to see how much money he had on him. Satisfied he had sufficient, he went into the first pub he saw and got solitarily, quietly and awesomely drunk.

  When he tried to stand and failed, he asked the landlord to call a taxi and book him into an hotel.

  * * *

  Prue sat for a long time after Harry had left, wondering how to deal with the next few days. She had not really expected it, had not really believed Harry was carrying on. She went hot at the thought of others guessing. Someone must have seen them together. Her lack of popularity would have made that an irresistible item for gossip.

  She doubted that Harry would stay out all night, so she did not bolt the doors as she usually did, but just locked them. After turning off all the lights she went upstairs. It was late. She had sat for hours, tense and waiting for his return. Sleep was nowhere near but she did not now, want to be up when Harry came back. Best to carry on as normal.

  Sleep would not come. She was so distressed. In the bathroom cupboard were some sleeping tablets. She went down and made a cup of Ovaltine, hurriedly washing up the saucepan and whisk when she had finished.

  She took off the new blue dress and threw it on the floor with an angry gesture. Harry had not even noticed. She felt humiliation as she thought of the way he had said, ‘Prue’, when he came home. She had turned, expecting him to say, ‘you look nice,’ and instead, he said he was leaving her. The way she had turned expectantly seemed now to have been embarrassing. She had looked a fool, begging for the crumbs of affection from him.

  Unable to leave it in a crumpled heap, although she knew she would never wear it again, she picked it up and slipped it onto a hanger. She would give it to Nelly. Let her sell it. She would give her all the clothes she had bought to give herself a new image. Let Nelly sell them all and get drunk. It would serve Evelyn right for the way she had spoken to her!

  The tablets did their work and although her mind tumbled with thoughts of where the events of the past hours might take her, soon, she slept.

  She woke to a feeling of confusion. It was pitch black yet she felt as if it were time to get up. It must be at least seven o’clock. Even with a sleeping tablet she never woke later than seven. She reached out for the clock and tried to read its dial. Then she sat up and switching on the bedside light, saw that it was indeed after seven.

  She frowned. The clock must be wrong. Stepping out of bed into her slippers, she reached for her dressing gown. Even in her puzzlement she stopped to do up each button and to fasten the belt firmly around her waist. She opened the curtains and could see nothing. She went into the next room, calling Harry’s name as she went. The landing curtains were pulled open but they too failed to give any light. The reason for the darkness was a
pparent but she did not want to believe it. Someone had painted over all the windows in the house with black paint.

  She ran to open her front door. Daylight streamed in and across the cardinal red tiles was written, NOSY OLD BUGGER. The paint was not dry, and before she telephoned the police, she scraped it off.

  * * *

  Amy watched as Victor Honeyman carried in the last of the boxes. She had recognised him as soon as the lorry stopped outside. He had danced with her at the Coronation party. She flirted with him a little, persuading him that she was too weak and helpless to stack the heavy boxes, and he had grinned and put them in the place she requested, with ease.

  ‘Can’t have a pretty little thing like you straining herself, can we?’ he said as he piled the last box on a high shelf. ‘Call me when you want them lifted down again, anytime,’ he said, ‘day or night, mind.’

  Amy laughed, signed for the goods and waved him off. From his cab, he called, ‘What about another night of dancing, you and me?’

  The phone went and she shouted, ‘One of these days, perhaps,’ and ran back to the shop.

  It was Harry. He explained briefly what had happened between himself and Prue.

  ‘Where are you?’ Amy asked.

  ‘At an hotel. I haven’t been home yet. Got a terrible headache.’

  ‘Darling, what can we do?’

  ‘Nothing for the moment. Just remember I love you and I’ll find a way round this. But, Amy, we’ll have to be more careful. If she can do this to me, she’s capable of doing something equally nasty to you if she finds out it’s you I’m in love with.’

  ‘Not meet for a while you mean?’

  ‘I have to see you. But we’ll be more cautious, or one day she’ll put two and two together and things will be impossible.’

  Amy replaced the receiver and she was trembling. Her emotions were mixed. She felt guilt, and dismay, but mostly she felt anger, against her sister, and Harry, and herself for allowing this to happen. Yet, she thought, there was no way of stopping it.

  She and Harry had been lovers for years. Since before he went into the R.A.F. They had quarrelled a lot, and it was after one of their fights that she had discovered she was pregnant with Freddy and gone back to tell him. He had been horrified. He didn’t want to know anything about it. He had thrust some pound notes into her hand and told her to do what was necessary.

  Later he had put a note through her door, with the address of someone who would ‘help’. The next day she had left home and gone to live in Yorkshire. When she eventually returned, war had begun and Harry had married Prue. It was not long before she and Harry were lovers again and he had failed her once more.

  She automatically got Margaret ready for school and helped Freddy with a last minute homework test. Then she opened the shop. Her first customer was Nelly, gleeful with some news to impart.

  ‘’eard, ’ave yer?’ she said as she pushed open the door. ‘Your sister’s winders. Painted all over they was, all of them. What a laugh. Teach ’er to be so nosy.’ She covered her mouth with an open hand like a child will, and said apologetically, ‘Sorry, dearie; I know she’s yer sister, but she does deserve it.’

  ‘What happened?’ Amy asked, going outside to have a look.

  ‘Seems she woke this mornin’ an’ thought it was still the middle of the night. Then she found that someone ’ad gone there durin’ the night an’ painted black over every winder in the ’ouse. There was a message on the porch too, the paperboy saw it. Nosy Old Bugger, it said, but she washed it off before she called the police.’

  ‘What did Harry say?’ Amy asked. She couldn’t admit she knew he had not been there. Then a thought struck her. Surely Harry hadn’t—? No, of course not!

  ‘’Arry wasn’t there, an’ ’e ’asn’t turned up. Off early she said, but she would, wouldn’t she?’ Nelly looked quizzically at Amy. ‘Better be careful ’e ’ad. I’ve always thought she could be a nasty bit of work, that sister of yours.’

  Amy looked at the crinkled face and the bright brown eyes. There was little that missed her notice, she thought, but fortunately she lacked the malice of Prue. She guessed she was being given a warning. ‘Here you are, Nelly; I’ve found a couple of tins of pork sausages. Packed in fat they are. Have one. You’ll enjoy them. No charge, they’ve been here for ages,’ she smiled.

  ‘Ooh, ta ever so!’

  ‘Nelly!’ Amy added in exasperation. ‘Stop that dog piddling on my floor!’

  Amy went to find a cloth and some disinfectant to wipe up after the dogs and when she came back, Nelly was still standing on the steps.

  ‘I can see my Mrs French comin’,’ she explained. ‘Might just as well wait. She locks up tight when she goes out so I won’t be able to get in and start me work.’

  Mrs French was dressed in a black suit with a small red hat on her head. A red handbag swung on her arm and her shoes and gloves were black. Nelly thought it amazing that people went to so much trouble to dress up when they were only walking a few yards. But she admitted that her Mrs French was a lady and always looked the part.

  ‘Take the key and make a start, would you, Nelly?’ Mrs French said. ‘I would like a word with Amy.’

  Nelly took the key and, stuffing the tin of sausages into her shopping bag, gave Amy and Mrs French a cheery wave, went across the road and past the end of her lane to start her morning’s work.

  Amy stood waiting for Mrs French to speak, wondering what would happen next. She must ring Prue and commiserate with her, although she agreed with Nelly that the attack was well deserved, and did have its funny side. Prue was a gossip, which made it all the more surprising that she had not realised about Amy and Harry.

  Mrs French was fumbling in her black handbag, and produced a black and white photograph. She hesitated, then showed it to Amy. ‘It’s a picture of my daughter, aged eight, the same age as your Margaret,’ was all she said. Amy stared at the picture but said nothing.

  ‘There is a remarkable resemblance, don’t you think? It was Prue who pointed it out. So similar in appearance and colouring, and Margaret also happens to be musically talented.’ Amy glanced at the woman and saw a nervous tic in her pale cheek. She said nothing but continued to stare at the photograph in her hand.

  ‘Freddy too?’ Mrs French asked in her gentle, modulated voice.

  You’d think she was asking about the weather, Amy thought. In answer to Mrs French’s question she shook her head.

  ‘This has been quite a morning,’ she said at last, handing back the photograph. ‘I wish I could go back to bed and start it all over again.’

  Customers came and went, and still she and Mrs French held the silence on their explanations and questions. Where do I begin? Amy wondered. Her hands were clumsy, she fumbled as she opened paper bags, dropped things and spilt change, and caught her fingers in the till and she didn’t know where to find things on her familiar shelves.

  ‘Will you have a cup of tea?’ she asked when there was a longer than usual lull in the stream of customers. ‘I could do with one, couldn’t you?’

  She went into the store-room at the back, where a water-heater gave facilities for making tea. Her hands shook uncontrollably. This was a day for facing her past all right. Something she had lived with for years was about to come out in the open. Glancing at the calm, strained face of Mrs French standing in front of her wearing a black suit and a red hat, she felt vulnerable and quite alone. She handed a cup to the older woman, taking in the expression on her face and realising with some surprise that she was feeling the same. In her misery, she had avoided the idea that Mrs French was facing something pretty devastating too.

  Discarding all the lies she had been preparing, all the outrage she had been about to portray instead, Amy said with honesty, ‘You’re right in what you think. Margaret is Richard’s child. He was my lover for a while, but you were always his love. I hoped you would never notice how like him Margaret was becoming. I – I should have gone away.’

  ‘It
’s obvious now, but I doubt if I would have noticed, without your sister having the pleasure of pointing it out.’

  ‘It wasn’t you who – no, that isn’t in your nature.’

  ‘Painted her windows? Not in my capabilities either; but you know, for the first time ever, I revelled in someone else’s misfortune.’

  The two women sat discussing their involvement with the same man as calmly as though they were talking about complete strangers. They spoke of him with affection, his kindness and consideration remembered, his gentlemanly standards, even in this, a retreat from those standards. Mrs French had already suffered the worst of the shock and dismay alone before she came. And Amy was almost relieved that the secret was out. It was becoming more and more difficult to hide as Margaret grew up.

  ‘You’ll still let Margaret come for music lessons?’ Mrs French asked. ‘I won’t do or say anything to suggest she is more than a very able pupil.’

  ‘Of course.’

  When Mrs French had gone, Amy locked the shop door for an hour and cried. She cried for Richard, and for Richard’s wife. For Harry and herself, and the mess her life had once more become.

  Then she bathed and put on one of her prettiest dresses, a tight-waisted floral print with a full, swinging skirt, and a low, square neckline. She made up her face and added a pair of her longest and most sparkling earrings with a matching necklace and she was ready to face whatever else the day held.

  * * *

  Prue was in a rage and she cleared through the wardrobe taking all the new clothes she had bought and threw them into a pile on the kitchen table. ‘Waste of good money,’ she muttered. ‘Rubbish, most of it!’ That it was expensive rubbish seemed worse. She went outside and, seeing Nelly wandering up the road towards Mrs French’s back gate, she called impatiently. ‘Here, you, come here a moment.’

  Nelly walked towards her, her face breaking out into a wide grin as she glanced up at the windows with their covering of paint. ‘Thought the blackout finished years ago! ’ She laughed her harsh laugh.