She wore a wrap-over apron and an old black cardigan, and on her feet were short boots as she stood in the running water, dealing with the potatoes. Her hair was in Dinkie curlers and to Nelly’s eyes seemed rusty, having been inexpertly dyed black to hide the greying. Nelly wondered how Griff and Hilda had ever come to be married. She was so dull and he treated her no better than a drudge, never even taking her to the pictures.
‘Tell your Griff I want ter see ’im!’ Nelly shouted and the woman looked up from her task and waved.
‘You’re as likely to see him as me, Nelly. Never in, always busy at something or other,’ Hilda complained. ‘If it isn’t work it’s darts and if not darts then he’s out in the woods setting his traps, or with our Pete, doing something to the motorbikes!’
‘’E owes me some money,’ Nelly growled.
Hilda shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘Join the queue!’
The back yard of the shop had been built on so there was little more than a path leading to the open-sided area where Hilda did most of her work. In the newer part of the building were two small rooms in which Milly Toogood and her husband, Tommy, lived. Milly’s daughter, Bethan, lived above the shop with her son Arthur who was the same age as Nelly’s grandson. Although Bethan had lived in the village all her life, few called her Bethan; to everyone she was “Milly Toogood’s daughter”. This was mainly due to the mystery of her husband who had been an American soldier and who had failed to materialise in time to welcome his son into the world. Doubt as to how to address her had led to her odd, nameless state.
As Nelly passed the back of Amy’s shop she heard the sound of children shouting as they were released from the confinement of school. She quickened her pace, now she was certain to find Dawn at home. There was one certainty regarding children of nine and ten; as they left school their first thought would be food! She was greeted by several children as she crossed back over the road and began to walk up Sheepy Lane to Hywel Rise where Dawn and her father were living.
This time there was an answer to her knock. The door opened almost at once and she guessed that the man was about to go out. Tad Simmons was small, slim and anxious-looking, his fair hair untidy, as if he had forgotten to comb it, even though he was wearing a lightweight overcoat and had a trilby in his hand. His face wore a mask of stubble which gave him a slightly wild look. The blue eyes were large and bellicose, the jaw tight, with an aggressive tilt that made Nelly step back.
‘What is it now?’ the man demanded irritably.
‘That ain’t much of a greetin’ is it?’ she said, and guessed, in a flash of sympathy that she was one of many who called to complain about his wayward daughter. ‘Best form of defence is attack, eh? Bin a lot of people to complain?’
‘Some. Is that what you’ve come to do, Nelly Luke?’
‘Oh, knows me name, do yer?’
‘I haven’t lived here long, but everybody knows Nelly Luke.’
‘Well yer wrong for a start off, me name’s Nelly Masters. I married again.’
‘What is it? I’m just off to work.’
‘I only wanted to ask if your Dawn would like to come an’ ’ave some tea with me grandson, Oliver, on Saturday.’
The man was surprised and he stared at her with a brief pleasure which quickly turned to suspicion.
‘Why?’
‘Well, she’s new ’ere an’ my Ollie’s got lots of friends. I’ll ask young Margaret Prichard too an’ ’ave a bit of a party.’ She turned to go, dragging the dogs from their attempt to go inside. ‘I expect you know where I live? Bring ’er about three, why don’t yer?’ She waved and walked off down the hill, leaving the man still staring in disbelief at her retreating figure.
He slammed the front door and sat for a moment in a kitchen chair. He wondered at Nelly’s motive. Not kindness, that was for sure. No one had shown him any kindness since the sympathy surrounding the death of his young wife had faded away. He was on his own and he was happy to accept that. He would look after Dawn and make sure she suffered as little as possible for the loss of her mother. He looked around the sparsely furnished room. If only he could work at a proper job and earn enough for them to be comfortable. He had long since given up his dream of returning to college to complete an engineering course interrupted by the war, but he longed to be able to work more than the few hours he managed by leaving Dawn in the charge of unwilling neighbours, to clean floors in a factory in Llan Gwyn.
* * *
Nelly still didn’t go home, her dinner was cooking in the oven heated by the fire and needed no immediate attention. She walked down Sheepy Lane and, holding the dogs as close to her as possible, called to see her daughter. Evie showed no pleasure at seeing her.
‘Tie those animals up, please, Mother,’ she said in her careful, slow voice. ‘If you intend coming to visit me, why don’t you leave them at home?’
‘My Mrs French don’t mind me takin’ ’em there, an’ she’s a real lady,’ Nelly retorted. She shortened the leads even more and stood outside the back door. ‘Beside, I ain’t visitin’. I just called to invite young Ollie to tea on Saturday.’
‘Oliver. Your grandson’s name is Oliver. And no, I don’t think he can come. Timothy and I have to go to town to buy him some summer clothes.’
‘Aw, you’ll be back by three, won’t yer? Send ’im up to me while you unpack yer shoppin’ an’ ’ave a bit of a sit-down, why don’t yer?’
‘Well, all right, if we’re back in time.’
‘Right. Tell ’im there’ll be baked potatoes done under the fire, just as ’e likes ’em.’
‘For tea?’ Evie looked horrified.
‘O’ course fer tea! An’ some jellies and cake.’
Nelly chuckled as she set off again, this time to the shop. Evie was such a snob. It was nothing but cucumber sandwiches and tiny cakes that would hardly fit into an egg cup, for her. Potatoes burnt with the ashes of a wood fire and, before rationing, running with butter, were most uncouth! ‘What she’s missing!’ Nelly sighed. ‘Poor Evie and ’er fancy ideas of what’s right.’
She wondered, as she reached Amy’s shop, whether there was any chance of some butter scraped from the paper and too stale to sell as someone’s ration, which Amy sometimes spared her. She would ask. When the fifty-six-pound block of butter was packed into two-ounce allowances the remnants were often scraped off and passed to her by a generous Amy.
When she walked the dogs she usually held her head down and it was only as she reached the shop steps that she looked up and noticed Mr Leighton’s new tractor parked outside the shop. Further down the lane was a van, marked with the name of Billie and Mary Brown’s dairy farm. Behind the tractor was another van. This one, she knew, was one driven by Victor Honeyman when he delivered from the wholesaler in Llan Gwyn. The shop was full and she thought she might be better served not to bother Amy at the moment.
Two people came out of the shop before she could move away. One was Billie Brown, the tall, strongly built farmer in his cowboy shirt and brown overalls, the other was Farmer Leighton. The two men stood discussing market prices and gave her a casual nod. With those two out of the way the shop did not seem so full and as Victor was there, it might be an idea to interrupt. Nelly thought it her duty as Amy’s friend to protect her from the advances of Victor Honeyman.
‘Amy, got a minute, ’ave yer? I wondered if your Margaret would like to come to tea on Saturday with my Ollie? I’ve asked that Dawn Simmons as well but don’t tell my Evie or she won’t let Ollie come.’ All this was shouted from the doorway, trying to prevent the dogs from entering.
She stretched further in to hear Amy’s reply and trod on Bobby’s paw. He yelped and the dogs belonging to the two farmers, and which she had not noticed, came running towards the shop, heads down in an aggressive manner. They growled and in seconds the air was filled with barking and snarling as the four dogs tried to assert their positions. Nelly let the leads go as snapping jaws threatened to bite her hands. It seemed an age before B
illie separated the angry animals by walking in and using his knees to force them apart. He held his hands high before grabbing the necks of his own dog and Leighton’s bitch and dragging them in opposite directions. Leighton stood on the leads of Nelly’s dogs to prevent them following as Billie shut the offender in the van.
‘Didn’t know there was a farmers’ convention this afternoon,’ Nelly grumbled into the sudden silence. She looked up to where Amy was standing, arms akimbo, glaring at them all. Behind her was Victor.
‘Sorry, Amy,’ Nelly said. She stood expecting a telling-off but all Amy said was, ‘Go and put the kettle on, Nelly.’
With Bobby and Spotty tied in the yard and the two farmers departed, Nelly left her dogs licking real and imagined wounds and made tea.
‘Shall I sweep up the mud while I’m ’ere?’ she offered. She gestured to where the hard-pressed patterns of mud had dropped from the boots of the farmers. While this was accomplished, Victor backed his van into the lane and took Amy’s order into the storeroom behind the shop.
‘I couldn’t get in before,’ he explained. ‘That Billie Brown’s van was in the way.’
‘Blimey, Amy, them two are like Milly Toogood and the Pup – you never see one without the other turning up! They must be telepathic where you’re concerned. Each seems to know when the other comes visitin’!’ Milly Toogood was rarely seen without her friend, Sybil Tremain, who always walked a few paces behind her as if in a constant effort to catch up. Nelly’s nickname for Sybil, “the Pup”, was now commonly used.
‘Victor always delivers on the same day,’ Amy smiled.
‘Yes, an’ I bet Billie manages to find a reason to call at the same time, to stop any chance of you two ’avin’ a moment together!’ Nelly sighed in exaggerated despair. ‘Why don’t yer marry one of ’em an’ put them both out of their misery?’
‘Victor is married!’ Amy’s voice was sharp.
‘Oh, an’ ’e’s the one, is ’e?’
‘Neither of them is “the one” as you put it. They are both good friends.’
There was a sadness in Amy’s eyes that made Nelly hurriedly change the subject. ‘Well, can she?’
‘What are you talking about now? Got a mind like a butterfly you have, Nelly Luke!’
‘Can Margaret come to tea on Saturday?’
‘Of course she can and thank you for asking her.’
‘An’ you won’t tell Evie that Dawn’s comin’?’
Chuckling, Amy mimicked Nelly and mimed cutting her throat. ‘Hope ter die!’
* * *
On Saturday afternoon, George and Nelly set up a table in the garden and laid it with cakes and jellies and a variety of salads, the cakes were made without fat, the custard with fresh eggs and the potatoes were taken from their jackets and mashed with a few slivers of corned beef saved from their lunch, and sprinkled with cheese before being placed on plates in front of the hungry children.
‘Thank Gawd cheese is off ration at last,’ Nelly said as she stood to watch the children eat.
‘They were quite excited to see such a grand spread, and it does look lovely with the coloured jellies and the iced cake,’ George smiled. ‘I hope they leave some for us!’
‘I thought it best to let them eat on their own. Give ’em a chance to talk, then I can find out from Ollie what sort of a girl Dawn is.’
‘From the way she’s tucking in, she’s pretty normal!’
After the children had eaten and filled up on some of Nelly’s homemade lemonade, Nelly expected them to play games in the garden, but as soon as she had eaten, Dawn disappeared.
‘She filled her pockets with what was left of the cakes, told us we were horrible and ran home,’ Oliver reported.
‘Never mind, we’ll ask ’er again,’ Nelly said. ‘I ain’t goin’ to be beaten by a ten-year-old!’
‘She’s a rebel and perhaps always will be,’ George warned. ‘Don’t expect too much.’
* * *
Phil-the-Post came later that evening and brought a list of names.
‘There you are. These idiots have volunteered to dig your trench for you, Nelly, me included, and we’ve all paid out for the privilege.’ He turned to the tall white-haired George and scowled. ‘Your name’s goin’ down too, isn’t it boy?’
‘I thought I’d be foreman and whip you all into action,’ George said innocently. ‘I haven’t got to dig as well, have I? And pay you for digging my own trench.’
‘I ain’t diggin’,’ Nelly said quickly. ‘I’m doin’ teas!’
‘And selling them,’ George added.
‘There’s something even you didn’t think of,’ Phil said with a laugh. ‘I’m selling tickets to them coming to watch!’
* * *
A few days before the day arranged to begin digging the trench for new drainage, Nelly went once more to Hywel Rise to see Dawn.
‘We’re doin’ a bit of fund-raisin’,’ she explained as Dawn’s father opened the door. ‘Cornin’ are yer, you an’ Dawn?’
‘I’ll see.’ Tad Simmons began to close the door.
‘Don’t yer want to know where an’ when?’
The door opened a little and she hurriedly explained the plan. ‘It’ll cost yer,’ she said, but the door had closed again. ‘Miserable old devil,’ she muttered, then her frown cleared as the door reopened and Tad asked for more details.
‘Sixpence to come an’ look, a shillin’ to ’elp with the diggin’.’ Then she added, ‘Dawn can come fer free an’ ’elp me with the teas.’.
‘Right, er, yes, we’ll come.’ Looking confused but unwilling to ask for further clarification, he again closed the door.
‘I don’t think ’e’ll come,’ Nelly told George later, ‘but you know. I think young Dawn was hidin’ behind the door expectin’ I’d come to complain about ’er behavior. She probably enjoys people getting on at ’er so I disappointed ’er there.’
* * *
The digging of the trench achieved several things, some not long-lasting. Firstly the trench was swiftly and neatly dug, ready for the council to connect Nelly’s cottage to the water supply, a prospect she half-dreaded, being so used to using the woods for her toilet and the tap in the lane for water. The second result of the afternoon’s work was a pile of oddments found as the spades overturned the ground. Thirty-seven broken clay pipes were evidence that someone had once sat on a garden seat and dreamed away the hours, old kettles and a brass fender, an old bicycle wheel and even an almost-complete pram were unearthed as the tangled shrubs were cut back and the earth opened up. All these were piled up at the furthest corner of the garden, near an even larger pile of branches and old wood.
Half the village appeared to watch the fun. They pushed their way through the gate and after dropping a coin into Phil’s eager hand, hurried to the back of the house, where, as usual, Bert Roberts had appointed himself as organiser. Nelly busied herself in the kitchen, watching as the stream of people passed, in the hope of seeing Dawn Simmons. The visitors slowed to an occasional trickle and she had almost given up hope when she recognised Tad Simmons in a rather untidy raincoat pushing his reluctant daughter in front of him.
She’s feigning reluctance, Nelly thought, watching the girl’s face. Just as she enjoys all the complaints her father gets about her. She put down the plate of sandwiches she had prepared for the time when the digging was finished and, hands on fat hips, stood at her door watching the man and young girl walk down the cinder path.
‘Come on, you’re late, ain’t yer?’ she said as if the arrangement to help had been a firm one. ‘You go ’ome, Mr Simmons, Dawn an’ I got things ter do.’ As she guessed, with such an emphatic greeting, Tad and Dawn were too surprised to argue. Nelly rolled up her sleeves and stuck the girl’s hands into a bowl of warm, soapy water, swished them about then handed her a towel.
‘That’ll do. There’s too much fuss about washin’ if you asks me. Now, get them sardines out of the tins and mash ’em for me, why don’t yer?’ She hummed
softly, secretly watching the girl as the sardines were spread on to slices of fresh bread. Dawn hardly spoke and when she spilt a dish of grated cheese and pickle, she just stared belligerently at Nelly, waiting for the complaint to come.
‘Bobby? Spotty?’ Nelly called and grinned at the girl as the spoilt food was quickly cleared. For the first time, Dawn smiled back.
‘Come on, let’s go an’ see ’ow they’re gettin’ on.’
She guided the girl up the curved staircase and into the cluttered back bedroom used by George. From the window, they looked at the village cwtched between the fields and hills. Only a few roofs and the tall church spire were visible, but columns of smoke rose into the still air and the hills shone a brilliant green in the sun.
‘Look down there, it’s Brenda ’avin’ a go,’ Nelly pointed and Dawn opened the window and leaned out. They were both kneeling on George’s bed and the girl jigged up and down in excitement.
‘What a big garden. And it’s full of trees!’
‘It was a real muddle before my George started to clear it,’ Nelly said, delighted that Dawn was enjoying herself. ‘Down there, where young Arthur Toogood is banging on the oak tree with a stick, there used to be a nest of owls. Bleedin’ ’eadache they’ll ’ave if they’re still there!’
Dawn giggled. Then she shouted down to Arthur, ‘Oi you! Stop that banging, you’ll frighten the birds!’
‘Yeh,’ Nelly joined in, ‘bang yer own ’ead if yer want to bang somethin’!’
Laughing, they closed the window.
‘We’d better go an’ see if they’re ready for some grub, before we get Milly Toogood on to us.’ At the doorway she stopped and saw that Dawn was looking at something in one of the boxes of abandoned treasures, things Nelly no longer used but was loath to throw away.
The Changing Valley Page 5