‘Nelly, my dear, are you trying to fly?’
* * *
The talk in the shop during the following days was mainly about the forthcoming fund-raising events. It had been decided in the various committees that events would continue for the whole of the summer, ending with the school half-term holiday in October. People were already busy with plans for squeezing money out of reluctant pockets. Sewing and knitting circles were piling up small articles for the stalls which would be a part of the end-of-summer fair. Timothy Chartridge, the headmaster of the village school and Nelly’s son-in-law, was beginning to select those pupils who would take part in the grand concert which he hoped would raise two hundred pounds. Prue Beynon, although she was so often confused by her illness, had understood what was planned and had agreed that the building firm left to her by her husband, Harry, would build the hall at low cost.
‘Tell yer what,’ Nelly offered one evening, when other plans were being discussed, ‘if my ’orse wins the Derby, I’ll give me winnin’s to the fund.’
‘What horse are you betting on?’ George asked.
‘I ain’t bettin’ on the ’orse so much as the jockey,’ Nelly explained. ‘I likes the look of that young Lester Piggot. Only eighteen ’e is, so I’ve backed Never Say Die.’
The Reverend Barclay Bevan, who was chairing the meeting in Mrs French’s comfortable lounge, frowned as if wondering whether he should thank Nelly or show his disapproval. He decided to pretend he had not heard. He was a short, plump man, with a balding head that emphasised his roundness. He would lean slightly towards the person he was addressing in an attitude of rapt attention but the blue eyes gradually became vague. It was easy to see that his attention had gone, leaving his mind free to wander over more interesting things. A cough from Bert brought him back to the meeting with a jerk and a slight blush of embarrassment.
‘We must look further afield than the boundaries of the village,’ he said hurriedly. ‘The amount we need cannot possibly come from us, no matter how generous we are as a community.’
‘I hope my concert will attract people from Llan Gwyn and even further away,’ Timothy Chartridge said. ‘I am aiming high.’
‘Where will we hold it?’ Bert Roberts demanded acerbically. ‘We haven’t got a Hall big enough! That’s why we’re here, remember?’ He went on muttering about educated idiots through the laughter of his quiet wife Brenda and others of the group, but Timothy, with his calm voice, quietened the disorder and went on, ‘I suggest that, as the present accommodation is so inadequate and holds only sixty people with any degree of comfort, we have three performances, to be held in the School, and also arrange to visit other locations. I feel sure that with our local talent we can find audiences for more than one concert.’
‘Can we ask you to investigate the possibilities and report back to us, Mr Chartridge?’ the vicar asked. As Timothy nodded agreement, he looked to the others for further suggestions. Bert Roberts bobbed up again.
‘I think I might persuade The Drovers to hold a darts tournament in aid of the fund, Vicar.’
‘That’s a splendid idea! I do think we ought to aim at giving full entertainment value with everything we plan. Yes.’ The round, rosy face beamed and the little man nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes.’ he said again. ‘Will you make enquiries, Bert, and report back?’
With a slightly inflated chest and a smile of satisfied importance, Bert sat down, to be congratulated by Brenda.
Nelly, sat at the back of the meeting, leaned towards her friend, Netta Cartwright, and muttered audibly, ‘That’ll be a disaster for a start off! Bert Roberts couldn’t organise kittens on a cat farm!’
‘He does try,’ Netta whispered, trying to hush Nelly’s loud comments.
‘Tries everyone’s patience!’ Ignoring the glare aimed at her by Bert and his wife, Brenda, Nelly smiled across at her son-in-law. ‘Well done, Timothy, you can put me an’ George down fer two tickets.’
‘Thank you Mother-in-law, most kind.’
Nelly mimicked his words and added, ‘Pompous old stick, ain’t ’e? Tedious Timothy I calls ’im.’
As Nelly and George walked home with Netta, they stopped at the end of Nelly’s lane and looked along the main road towards the church and its hall.
‘It seems a shame to pull it down,’ George said. ‘I know it’s too small, but it’s as much a part of Hen Carw Parc as the church.’
‘I don’t think that’s the intention,’ Netta said in her gentle Welsh voice. ‘A committee room it will be, and for smaller meetings when the new hall will be too big.’
‘I wonder what I can do,’ Nelly mused, ‘beside me gambling?’ The following day, Phil-the-Post brought her an idea.
* * *
Nelly was weeding around the new carrots, wearing George’s wellingtons again as hers were still unfit to use, when Phil Davies propped his bicycle against her gate and walked down the cinder path. Nelly threw down the hoe and kicked off the loose boots.
‘’Ello, Phil, stoppin’ fer a cuppa?’
‘Got any cake left?’
‘’Course I ’ave.’
‘All right then.’ He threw his sack down beside the back door and bent to scratch the heads of the two big dogs. ‘What have they roped you in for with this fundraising, Nelly?’ he asked as he settled into the wooden chair near the door. He took the steaming cup and added with a grin, ‘Selling teas, is it?’
‘I couldn’t sell teas, Phil. I likes people to come an’ ’ave one free. No, I don’t know what George an’ I will do, but we’ll think of something.’
As Nelly refilled the plate with her small cakes and replenished his cup, Phil delved into his bag and handed her a letter. She opened it as he sipped noisily at the hot drink.
‘Damned if I ain’t got an idea fer raisin’ some money!’ she gasped, a leery grin on her face. ‘This’ll make a bit of fun, Phil.’
Phil stretched up to see what the letter said, his dark eyes bright with the prospect of curiosity being satisfied.
‘What is it, Nelly? From the council, isn’t it?’
‘It’s about me new drains, and the bathroom an’ posh lavatory. Seems George an’ I got to dig the trench fer the drainage ourselves.’ She stared skywards, her uneven teeth showing in a crooked smile. ‘I’m goin’ ter do what that Tom Sawyer did in one of Mark Twain’s stories, Phil. I’ll get the drain trench dug an’ charge people to do it for me!’
‘You want people to dig your trench and pay you for the privilege. I always thought you were daft, woman. Now I know for sure!’
Nelly threw back her head and laughed loudly, her harsh roar disturbing a flock of sparrows in the apple tree.
‘If I succeed, then I ain’t so daft, am I? You remember the story, Phil. Tom Sawyer ’ad to whitewash a fence an’ ’e persuaded ’is friends that it was a rare privilege to be allowed to do it. They paid ’im with tadpoles and a dead rat on a string an’ stuff like that. I’ll ask fer money fer the fund.’
‘Damn me, Nelly, if anyone can persuade people to do your work for you and pay for doing it, you can!’ He was still laughing as he finished his third cup of tea and set off to deliver the rest of his mail and spread the news.
Nelly watched him go, a smile on her face as she thought of the day of fun to come. She had the local councillor, Mrs Norwood Bennet-Hughes, to thank for it. That large fur-coated lady had called on her, driving her Rover up the narrow lane and parking near her gate. They’d shared a pot of tea and had soon been chatting like old friends. Before she left, she had promised to see that the cottage would have a bathroom as soon as it was possible. Nelly’s smile widened, her crooked teeth showing as she thought of how jealous her social-climbing daughter had been to learn that Nelly had made a friend of such an important local dignitary.
Nelly went up the curving staircase and into the back bedroom, which, although an attempt had been made to clear it when George came to live, still had a clutter of half-explored boxes against two walls, leaving only a na
rrow space for George to walk to his bed. Kneeling on the beige counterpane, she looked down at the village of Hen Carw Parc in the distance, the spire of the church gleaming in the sun. The church and its hall had once been the centre of the village and an inn had stood beside it, but the sprawl of new council houses to the east and the loss of cottages in the fields behind the main road, had distorted the shape. The inn had long disappeared and a school built in its place.
She had lived in the village since 1940 – fourteen years – and despite beliefs to the contrary that newcomers were never accepted, felt she truly belonged. Her London accent had not faded but even that failed to dissuade the locals from believing her to be as much a part of the place as the church spire.
Her reputation as an easy-going, untidy and careless housekeeper bothered very few among the house-proud locals, but when her daughter Evie had returned to live in the village with her headmaster husband, Timothy, things had been difficult for Nelly. Evie had tried, unsuccessfully, to prise Nelly out of her primitive cottage where she lived so contentedly, and Nelly’s marriage to George, who had wandered the fields and farms as a tramp, caused further shock. Finally Evie had reluctantly seemed to accept that her mother was in the cottage to stay.
The dogs ignored the rule about climbing the stairs and jumped up beside her to look out of the window, wanting to share with her whatever strange occupation she indulged in. She hugged them both with her fat arms, smiling in contentment as she looked down at the mess of the half-tamed garden. Her uneven teeth distorted the smile, three having been knocked out some years previously. Her dark eyes were intelligent and they glowed as she studied the garden and imagined the teams of men she would soon see out there, digging the trench for the drainage.
She left the window and, collecting the dogs’ leads, walked down to the village shop.
‘Amy, will you put a notice in the shop winder for me?’ she asked, dragging Spotty from an imminent clout from Amy as he tried to wet against a sack of potatoes.
‘Take that dog out, Nelly, for heaven’s sake,’ Amy sighed. ‘I’ve just disinfected the floor after Billie Brown’s sheep dog!’
‘I just want you to put up a notice for me. I won’t stay.’
‘All right, what is it?’
‘Finish servin’. We ain’t in no ’urry.’ She slapped the dogs’ rumps to make them sit and, when the shop was empty, told Amy of her idea.
‘Daft!’ was Amy’s comment, ‘but it’s likely to work.’
‘Put the kettle on, Amy. I’ll carry these crates of vegetables outside while I’m ’ere. Constable ’Arris won’t be around fer a while.’ Wheezing and puffing, Nelly moved the vegetables into a neat row on the pavement.
When Amy carried in the cups of tea, she stared at the wooden baker’s tray on the counter near the door.
‘Have you sold one of those iced cakes, Nelly?’
‘No, just some ’taters to Brenda Roberts. The money’s on the till.’
‘That’s funny, there were three of them and one is missing. Nelly – if one of your dogs—’
‘No, they ain’t bin near.’
‘Could someone have nipped in and taken one?’
‘P’raps, but I never saw no one.’
The cake that had disappeared was a snow cake, covered in marshmallow and with a cherry on the centre. As Nelly walked back up the lane, the dogs began to pull and, when they were released, they pushed their way through the hedge of Mr Leighton’s field with great urgency. Curious, Nelly peered over the hedge by standing on the sloping grassy bank and saw them tucking in to what looked suspiciously like the missing cake.
‘What d’you think of that?’ she said to George later as they sat eating baked potatoes outside their back door. ‘Someone pinched it then threw it over the ’edge. Why would someone do that, eh?’
George smiled, his clear blue eyes laughing, the pink lips within the neat white beard parted. ‘A mischievous child?’
‘No one I know would take a cake an’ not eat it.’
‘What about the little girl we saw the other morning, running out of the garden with a hen’s egg? We found that smashed on the lane, didn’t we?’
‘You think it might be the same girl? But why, George?’
‘Mischief, like I said, or a game of Dare.’
‘Why are you smilin’ George?’
‘I know who she is.’
‘’Oo then? Is she starvin’? We could coax ’er in an’ give ’er a good meal, couldn’t we?’ Nelly’s face wrinkled with compassion as she thought of a child in need of food. Her mind raced with ideas for meals to tempt the child.
‘She’s called Dawn and her mother is dead. She lives in the council houses with her father, and no, he doesn’t neglect her from what I hear, but she is what you might call difficult.’
‘We’ll look out for ’er an’ see if she’ll talk to us. Sometimes it ain’t yer nearest an’ dearest what’s best able to ’elp.’ She looked at George and smiled. He was her nearest and dearest now, even though their marriage had only been an arrangement to frustrate Evie’s efforts to get her out of her cottage. They had settled to a life many would envy. No sex to cause aggravation and turbulence, just serene untroubled friendship. Nellie didn’t pray often but when she did it was to thank God for sending George to her.
When Phil-the-Post arrived the following morning, Nelly was just leaving for work. It was Wednesday, the day she ‘did’ for Mrs French. She took the letters he offered and nodded towards the fire where the blackened kettle simmered gently.
‘Kettle’s on the boil, make yerself a cuppa, why don’t yer? I got to go or Mrs French’ll be worryin’.’
‘No time, Nelly. Late I am, thanks to some kind person who stole my bike!’
‘Stole yer…’ Nelly laughed. ‘What did I just see you ride up on then, a Rolls Royce?’
‘Borrowed one from Mam. Been in the shed for years it has. Proper fool I feel, riding a sit-up-and-beg woman’s bike. What with the high handlebars and the cords across the wheels to stop me skirts from catching in the spokes! Damn, the kids have been running after me, laughing their heads off! Never live it down I won’t, if one of my mates sees me.’
‘Pinched? Are you sure you never rode it to The Drovers an’ forgot to ride it ’ome?’
‘Someone took it from outside the front window. There’s typical, isn’t it. I wanted to finish early today. Mam’s birthday it is and we were planning a surprise. All of us pretending we’ve forgotten, then tuning up this evening with presents and mine not bought yet! When I find out who took it I’ll give it to him proper! Sorry he’ll be that he tangled with Phil Davies!’
‘He – or she,’ Nelly said thoughtfully.
* * *
When she had finished her morning’s work, Nelly did not go straight home. She walked past the cottage and up through the woods to the ruins of the castle. She sat on a low wall and watched as the dogs wandered through the ruins, sniffing out trails and following tracks, their long tails wagging in excitement. After a while, Nelly followed them, looking into the only surviving room that had been used as a kitchen when the village had celebrated the Coronation the previous summer. It was a few moments before her eyes became accustomed to the poor light but when she could see clearly, her eyes picked out a bundle of clothes in the far corner. She gasped with shock. At the time of the Coronation someone had slept here for a while: Mrs French’s son, Alan, who had come back from the war, despite having been presumed killed. His return had ended with his tragic suicide and the silence of the place and the sight of the heap of clothes just where he had slept shocked Nelly’s memory. For a moment she thought Alan had returned once again from the dead. She shuddered and stepped towards the clothes, then bent to look closer. Moving some of them, Nelly recognised the outline of a bicycle, Phil’s bicycle. She tugged it upright and with the dogs following, pushed it through the broken walls and overgrown stones to the path.
She stood for a moment, wondering whether to go to Ph
il’s mother’s house or take the bicycle home, when a small figure ran past, almost knocking her and the bicycle to the ground. The dogs began to bark angrily, their front paws leaving the ground as emphasis to their disapproval.
‘’Ere,’ Nelly shouted angrily, ‘Come back ’ere, cheeky little perisher! Oi, you, is that Dawn?’ she shouted the last words as the idea of the child’s identity came to her.
‘No business of yours, Dirty Nelly!’ the girl shouted back.
‘Enough of yer “Dirty Nelly”, cheeky little devil!’
The dogs began to run off in pursuit of the fleeing girl but Nelly called them back.
‘Come on, boys, time we was gettin’ back. ’S funny,’ she frowned. ‘I thought people was beginnin’ to ferget me nickname.’ She walked towards the lane, pushing the bicycle and stumbling occasionally in her angry haste. ‘Cheeky little sod, I’ll give ’er Dirty Nelly!’
Chapter Two
Griff Evans lived in one of the cottages in the row which included the fish-and-chip shop. His wife, Hilda worked at the shop or rather outside it, cleaning fish and chipping the potatoes and making the batter so everything was ready for when Bethan, Milly Toogood’s daughter, opened for business. Griff was a regular caller at the shop, but he did not go there to work but to spend a pleasant hour with Bethan.
He was not a very attractive man, caring little for his appearance, even when calling on his lady love. He was short, dark and rather overweight with a stomach that was already beginning to bulge over his leather belt. He worked at the forestry and rarely changed out of his work clothes. He put on an old mackintosh when he went to the woods to poach on the estate far to the north of the village, and added a peaked cap when the weather was wet. He also earned money carrying bets for the local bookie and it was to him that Nelly had taken her two-shilling gamble on the Derby.
The Changing Valley Page 2