The Changing Valley

by The Changing Valley (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  On Saturday morning Amy’s shop was busier than usual. Mainly because she had a fresh supply of locally grown vegetables which attracted even those who normally bought in the town. The pavement display stretched across the window and past the side door which led to the flat in which the Powells lived. In between serving customers, she and Mavis Powell hurriedly tidied up the fallen cabbage leaves and swept up the soil from the potatoes and made the row of boxes and wooden crates as unobtrusive as possible, knowing that if Constable Harris passed, he would come in and complain about her blocking the pavement, as he frequently did.

  The arrival of Farmer Leighton and Billie who both had dogs with them did nothing to help as the two women briskly but patiently served the steady flow of customers. When there was a brief lull, she went into the small kitchen and made a cup of tea, sitting down thankfully on the one chair to rest her tired legs. Sian was awake and cooing happily in her cot, which Amy had placed in the playpen Billie had made for her. She picked the little girl up and hugged her.

  ‘You, my lovely, are the most amiable and good-tempered baby anyone could have and I love you.’ She played with a bouncing toy, laughing with the child until the whistle of the kettle brought her back to the hubbub of voices, as customers waited to be served. She poured the teas and took one to Billie.

  ‘Amy, would you and Margaret like to come fishing with me tomorrow?’ Billie asked. ‘We’ll ask Oliver too if Margaret would like to.’

  ‘No, I can’t. Prue is coming for the day.’ She pulled a face, suggesting she would prefer the offered day out to seeing her sister. ‘I can’t put her off and there’s no way she would come with us.’

  ‘Then I’ll take Margaret and Oliver. Mary will come with us so they’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘Ask her,’ Amy said. ‘I’m sure she’d love to go with you. Pity I can’t come with you. A day away from the shop and everything would suit me fine.’ She served Netta with a loaf and added, ‘Come to lunch, Billie, and you and the children can go as soon as you’ve eaten.’

  ‘Great,’ Billie smiled.

  She watched as he went outside and stood talking to Mr Leighton, Leighton’s hand proudly on his new tractor. She guessed they were discussing the various virtues of the different types and comparing both to the horses now retired. She wondered if farming talk could ever be anything but boring to her. Billie was becoming a regular visitor to her home and he was gradually becoming a part of her life. It was to him she turned if things went wrong in the house, he who mended broken windows or wired electric plugs. But, she wondered, if he was becoming a part of her life, could she ever become a part of his? Chickens, milk yields, wool prices, it was all so far from anything she had been involved in she doubted if she could ever be excited by them.

  Billie tried to show an interest in the shop, suggesting changes to the layout and offering to add to the shelves and fitments, never minding when she explained how his ideas would not work. He was a calm man, never roused to anger and never upset by the lack of time she had to spend with him. He accepted her as she was and that was flattering as well as restful. When she had washed the cups and saucers she tidied up the muddle of the almost-empty crates and it was nearly half an hour before she realised he had gone.

  The trouble with Billie was that he never stayed in her mind for long. While he was there she was happy to be with him, but away from her his presence was never felt. It was not like that with Victor. She thought of him often and when he left her she felt the separation like a cold draught in her heart. She would never have allowed him to go without being aware of his departure, without watching him drive or walk away, looking at his retreating figure until something blocked the sight of him.

  * * *

  The Sunday lunch was not as she planned. Sheila Davies called in at ten o’clock and at eleven-thirty Amy felt obliged, by her promise to Freddie, to invite her to stay for the meal. Sheila thanked her and at once began to help with the vegetables. Amy tried not to be irritated by the girl, but even the way she cut up the potatoes for roasting made her want to snatch them from her and throw them in the rubbish bin. She sighed inwardly. She had to admit it, whatever Sheila did or did not do, she could not pretend to like her.

  It was a relief when Billie and his sister arrived earlier than she expected.

  ‘Go on in and talk to Mary, will you, Sheila? There’s no room in this kitchen for another helper.’ Her face a little tense, Sheila dried her hands and went to where Mary was glancing through some magazines. Amy knew she had spoken too sharply but before she could soften the words the door bell went again and Prue arrived.

  Leaving the vegetables simmering and the roast potatoes beginning to brown, Amy picked up the baby and handed her to her mother. To her surprise and relief, Prue seemed less afraid of holding the little girl and even showed a glimmer of a smile when she looked down at her daughter. She sat in the armchair and Sheila sat on the arm and Amy felt a pang of compassion as Sheila helped Prue to change the baby’s napkin, and later to feed Sian before putting her down near Prue to sleep. It was a surprise to see how well the young girl got on with the older, tight-faced Prue. Amy guessed that Sheila was putting on an act and pretending to agree with the few remarks Prue made but she was grateful to her and, when opportunity offered, she thanked her for her kindness to Prue.

  During the meal, Prue changed her attitude to Sheila and even refused to sit near her. It was, Amy guessed, Prue’s erratic memory reminding her of Sheila’s earlier behaviour and, half-remembering, she disapproved. Mary was very quiet. She had only been to Amy’s house a few times and whether it was the strangeness of an unfamiliar place or the atmosphere created by having Sheila and Prue present she couldn’t decide. Billie sat beside her and managed to appear unaffected by the antagonism. Margaret and Oliver giggled!

  It was a relief when the meal was over. Amy had swallowed her food without tasting it, wishing the time away, longing for the moment when she would be alone. The dishes were stacked in the kitchen and although Mary offered to help Amy insisted they set off for their fishing expedition.

  ‘Don’t waste the best of the day,’ she said with a forced smile of politeness. She felt embarrassed as Mary stood watching Billie kiss her goodbye and thought she saw in the woman’s expression a slight anxiety, a fear showing in the sombre dark eyes. Perhaps I would be sentencing her to years of isolation if I accepted Billie as the answer to my own loneliness, she thought.

  The children were in the Land Rover and Mary settled in the driving seat when Amy had yet another visitor. Nelly came towards the car, both dogs bouncing about beside her in their delight at seeing Oliver and Margaret.

  ‘Out for a walk, Nelly?’ Billie asked.

  ‘Come to give Amy a hand with clearin’ out the shed,’ she shouted. ‘If she’s goin’ ter move back to the flat she’s got a lot of clearin’ to do, ain’t she?’

  Billie left the car and walked back to where Amy was standing. ‘What’s this about moving back then?’

  ‘Just an idea at the moment. It depends on whether I can persuade Mavis and Ralph to move out.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me?’

  Amy felt that flurry of irritation that Billie often caused. She hated being crowded and even the slightest hint that he was proprietorial towards her made her eyes flash with anger. Billie seemed unaware of it as he went on, ‘You should talk to me about these things, Amy. I want to help, you know that.

  ‘It’s only an idea, Billie, there’s nothing decided.’

  ‘That’s the time to talk.’

  ‘Then we’ll talk, but not now,’ she said and glanced back to where Prue and Sheila were watching and obviously listening in the doorway. ‘I don’t want the Powells finding out before I have time to tell them, now do I?’

  ‘Amy,’ he lowered his voice and bent his head down to hers, ‘could you consider moving to the farm instead?’

  ‘Billie, I couldn’t consider anything today. There’s Prue and Sheila ab
out to scratch each other’s eyes out and now Nelly arrived expecting me to start thinking about what to throw out from the shed. I forgot I asked her to come and help. Isn’t that enough for a Sunday afternoon?’

  ‘The seed of an idea is planted, now I’ll stand back and let it grow,’ Billie whispered. He kissed her lightly and went to where the children and his sister were waiting.

  Amy wondered if his words had been overheard. Nelly did not keep her wondering for long.

  ‘Gettin’ poetical, your Billie, ain’t ’e?’ she laughed.

  Amy left Nelly happily throwing things out of the shed and sweeping up the dust and oddments that seem to appear on their own in any outhouse or shed. Sheila made a pot of tea and she poured a cup for Amy.

  ‘I’d better get back now, Mrs Prichard,’ she said, reaching for her coat, ‘I expect you and Mrs Beynon have lots to talk about.’

  Amy sighed and looked at the window where Prue stood with her coat on, watching for the taxi that was not due for over two hours. She seemed oblivious to them and apparently did not hear the wailing cry of Sian, who seemed restless as if even she had been aware of the undercurrents in the oddly assorted gathering.

  ‘Lucky you,’ she whispered with unexpected candor. ‘I wish I had somewhere to go!’

  * * *

  The day after the fishing trip Oliver was awoken early and it was hardly seven o’clock before he had eaten his breakfast and was dressed ready for school. Evie was still in her dressing gown but the kitchen was clear of dishes and the house as neat and orderly as it could be. Timothy was in the spare bedroom, which Evie called his study, preparing his talk for assembly.

  When someone knocked at the back door it was Evie’s first impulse to ignore it. Anyone who called at such an inconvenient time hardly deserved a thought. Oliver stood on a chair and looked out of the kitchen window and at once Evie pulled him down with irritation.

  ‘Now I’ll have to answer, they’re bound to have seen you,’ she complained in a hissing whisper. She opened the door, tightening the belt of her dressing gown as she did so, and saw Dawn Simmons standing there.

  ‘What do you want so early in the morning?’ Evie asked.

  ‘Is Mr Chartridge in?’ Dawn said with no sign of being intimidated by Evie’s disapproval. ‘I’ve got something to show him.’

  ‘Mr Chartridge is the school headmaster and not on duty twenty-four hours a day. Can’t you see him at school?’

  ‘Of course I can, but I thought he’d like to see these.’ Dawn held out a packet containing some photographs. ‘You and Oliver can look too,’ she offered as added encouragement.

  Evie took the package and pulled out the photographs with obvious distaste and, holding them at the very edge as if too great a contact might be dangerous, she looked at the pictures Dawn had taken at the Mumbles Railway celebrations.

  They were very good, even she could see that, and she nodded approval as she turned the pictures over and examined each one with genuine interest. Then her face showed surprise and puzzlement and she handed the offending photograph to Oliver, who had been trying to see them as she shuffled through the pile.

  ‘Oliver? Is this you?’

  ‘Yes, Mam, er, Mother,’ he stammered.

  ‘But what are you wearing?’ Oliver did not answer her and she stared at him. ‘Oliver? Where did you get these awful, common clothes?’

  ‘I liked them,’ he said mutinously, his head down and his ears beginning to redden.

  ‘His gran brought them for him so he could enjoy the picnic without spoiling his best clothes,’ Dawn said. ‘Thinking of you, she was. All that washing off of sand and ice cream if he wore his best.’

  ‘I’ll see your grandmother about this.’ Evie handed the photographs back and nodded dismissal to Dawn. ‘Very nice. You must show them to Mr Chartridge when you get to school. He’s far too busy to be interrupted now.’

  ‘I’m going to show Nelly. You coming?’ Dawn asked Oliver, who nodded, after glancing at his mother for permission.

  ‘Don’t be long and for goodness sake avoid the mud in the lane. I don’t want you disgracing us by arriving at school looking like a tramp.’

  ‘Grandad George was a tramp and his shoes are always shiny-clean,’ Oliver whispered to Dawn.

  ‘What did you say?’ Evie demanded, but the firm closing of the back door was the only reply she received.

  Oliver set off up the back garden and over the fence into the field behind the house. At the top of the field were the woods and he and Dawn followed the edge of the trees until they reached Nelly’s gate.

  Nelly was sitting outside her door, drinking a cup of tea and feeding the two big dogs with cake. She smiled a greeting when she saw the two children and waved them inside to find a piece of bread and jam. Dawn dropped the photographs on to Nelly’s lap as she followed Oliver into the cottage.

  After she had looked at them, Nelly shouted her admiration and delight at the excellence of the pictures and laughed at the amusing shots of some of the local people the girl had managed to take: one of Phil reaching over to take a cake, his eyes wide as he tried to do so without his wife seeing him; Johnny concentrating on the sand castle he was building; Nelly laughing, her mouth wide open, her arms spread in abandon; a child crying, his distorted features covered in the remnants of an ice cream, sand clearly showing on his bare torso. A story in every one.

  ‘Ere, young Dawn, these are good! Shown my son-in-law, Tedious Timothy, ’ave yer?’ She corrected herself with a wink at Oliver and said ashamedly, ‘I means the ’eadmaster. Mr Chartridge. Seen ’em ’as ’e?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Dawn told her. ‘I called but Mrs Chartridge said he was busy. She looked at them, but all she said was, “Where did Oliver get those clothes?”.’

  ‘Blimey!’ Nelly covered her face with a grubby hand, her eyes widening with horror. ‘Fergot them photographs I did, young Ollie. Cross was she? About us changin’ yer suit fer somethin’ decent fer once?’ Unrepentant, she laughed, her mouth wide and showing her uneven teeth. ‘Blimey, I bet she ’ad a shock, seein’ you dressed proper summery and not like you was goin’ to Buckin’am Palace for a medal!’

  Margaret arrived, having walked to the shop early with her mother and the baby, and her face dropped when she saw Dawn with Oliver and Nelly, sitting drinking lemonade and laughing at the old woman’s stories. Dawn was an interloper and Margaret wished she would go away.

  ‘’Ello, Margaret, got time fer a drink of pop, ’ave yer?’ Nelly called and frowned as Margaret walked on without waiting for Oliver and Dawn to walk with her.

  ‘Go on, you two,’ she said, pulling herself clumsily to her feet. ‘Got things ter do, I ’ave, an’ you two don’t want to be late fer school or I’ll get a rocket from yer mum.’

  At playtime, while Dawn was proudly showing her photographs to Timothy, Margaret approached Oliver.

  ‘I think we need a secret place. Somewhere only you and I can go,’ she said.

  ‘Not even Dawn?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Definitely not her!’ Margaret was vehement.

  ‘Gran says we should be nice to her as she hasn’t got a mother.’

  ‘I haven’t got a father!’

  Confused by the logic of this, Oliver agreed. ‘All right, a secret from everyone. What will it be, a hollow tree? I know where there’s one.’

  ‘No, I want us to have a tree house. I think Uncle Billie would help us make one.’

  ‘Yes, we’d need help. I don’t think my father would let me use a big saw,’ Oliver said regretfully.

  They discussed the project until the bell went, sending them running back to their lessons, having agreed to meet later and explore the woods for a likely site.

  * * *

  Margaret’s plan to exclude Dawn was not a success. Billie and George agreed to help them and on the following Saturday, with Oliver explaining what he needed, the two men carried sawn logs into the wood near the small stream to begin the tree house. Both men commented on O
liver’s ‘good eye’ and his ability to guess with surprising accuracy when a piece of wood was needed, without the use of the swivel-hinged measure Billie had brought. The place they had chosen was not very far from the lane and as the men sawed and banged, Margaret watched anxiously for signs of the interloper. The last nail was in place and the ropes all tightly fastened to support the platform with the leafy roof, some eight feet up in an oak, when she heard someone approaching. To her relief it was not Dawn, then she recognised the man. It was Dawn’s father.

  He turned aside from the path he was following when he saw the group of people, and dragging a sack which he had been filling with fallen branches for his fire, he disappeared down the leafy pathway from which he had appeared. From behind him appeared Dawn and she did not walk away but ran at once to see what they were doing.

  ‘Go away Dawn Simmons,’ Margaret hissed. ‘This is private.’

  ‘Mr Brown,’ Dawn called to Billie, who was testing the tree house with his strong arms, pulling at the branches to make sure there was no movement. ‘Mr Brown, what are you making?’

  ‘It’s a secret, or it’s supposed to be. I expect, if you’re patient, Margaret and Oliver will invite you to come and see one day, but not yet. It’s private, see.’

  Dawn flounced away, not following her father but down towards Nelly’s cottage, and it was there they found her when the tree house was declared finished and they all went for a drink and a rest. Oliver did not go into the cottage. He struggled to reach an apple box which he remembered seeing at the back of Nelly’s old shed.

  ‘Gran, can I have this for a cupboard in our tree house?’ he asked and, when he and Billie went back to fix it into place, they found that once again Oliver’s judgement was good. The box fitted where Oliver said it would, with only a small amount of trimming and a few stout nails.

  Billie seemed to fill Nelly’s room, sitting in the big armchair and spreading his long legs across the hearth. George sat the other side of the fire, as tall but not as hefty, and even the dogs failed to find a place against the brass fender. Summer it might be, but the warmth of the fire was an attraction. The door was open as always and as Nelly went up the cinder path to refill the sooty kettle from the tap in the lane she saw Tad hovering as if waiting for someone.