The Changing Valley

by The Changing Valley (retail) (epub)

  Rationing had finally ended, with meat being freely available for the first time since March 1940. She put the large beef joint into the oven with a sigh of satisfaction. She would fill their plates with slices of the luxury and over-indulge with the rest of the nation. Contentedly, she began preparing the vegetables.

  She had not told Prue about the robbery. It was unlikely the thief would be caught and the talk would have died down long before Prue was home again and living in the village. It was still a shock to her every time she thought about it but she had deliberately not discussed it with Margaret except when her daughter brought the subject up, and had then treated it like an adventure rather than a threat to their safety.

  After they had eaten lunch and Margaret had gone back to the church, Netta Cartwright called. She was carrying a bag containing wool and needles and an assortment of patterns.

  ‘Is Prue there?’ she asked, as Amy invited her inside. ‘I’ve called for her help.’

  Netta was very like her son, Johnny, although she was built like a dumpling while he didn’t have an ounce of spare flesh on his body. Nothing ever seemed to put Netta out of countenance and in this Johnny differed from her.

  Quick to anger in defence of something unfair, Johnny had been a sworn enemy of Prue Beynon when she lived in the house near Mrs French and had spent much of her time looking out of her landing window watching and observing and, to the dismay of many, reporting and criticising what she saw. ‘Nosy Old Bugger’ was what Johnny called Prue Beynon.

  Netta sympathised with his opinion but had always tried to befriend the woman who few could admit to liking. Now, with Prue ill and in a hospital for the mentally disturbed, Netta had come to try and bring Prue back into the life her illness had forced her to abandon. She opened her bag and handed Prue the soft, fine wool she had brought, and a pair of needles.

  ‘Making for the sale of work we are, Prue,’ she explained, ‘and someone gave me this lovely wool. Too fine for me to knit. Two-ply and so fine it will knit up like lace in the hands of an expert. Can’t attempt it myself. Would you be willing to make something for us? Church Hall Fund it is, as I expect Amy has told you. Best knitter we have in our sewing and knitting circle you are.’

  Prue did not respond but Netta handed her some of the patterns she had brought, tapping the top one with a work-roughened finger. ‘It’s this baby frock I’d like to see made up. Two-ply, and such a beautiful feather stitch. D’you think you could make it for us? Pride of place it would have, centrepiece for the stall. Pinned out on stiff blue paper so the pattern could be admired. Remember we did that last year with a shawl you’d made for us? Lovely work, that was.’

  Prue put down the patterns and, ignoring both Amy and Netta, stared down at the baby propped up in the corner of the couch, wrapped in a shop-bought shawl and wearing a plain white dress. She did not say anything until Netta had gone. Then, when it was almost time for the taxi to call to take her back to the hospital, she picked up the wool, needles and the pattern of the fan-and-feather dress and put them in her handbag.

  ‘Going to have a go, are you?’ Amy smiled.

  ‘Not for the stall!’

  ‘Oh?’

  Amy crossed her fingers behind her back and held her breath as Prue said. ‘For Sian. Disgraceful you are, Amy, letting her be seen in shop-bought things and not even a bit of embroidery on her little dress.’

  Amy apologised, reminding her sister that she was not as good at handwork as Prue. The complaint, coming from her sister was like a dream come true. It was the first time Prue had shown any sign of returning to normal. Tomorrow she would go and thank Netta and tell her how their plan had worked.

  * * *

  Later that evening Morgan Morgan called to collect Prue’s accounts books and she found herself telling the young man about the horrifying events of the evening. He listened with comforting concern, his hazel eyes frowning with distress at her account of the robbery. Morgan Morgan was a quiet, serious-looking man in his early twenties who still had a school-boy look and long thin hands you expected to be covered with ink from writing in exercise books.

  He was always neatly dressed and wore his brown hair firmly pressed into place with generous amounts of Vaseline Hair Tonic. There was about him, Amy thought with a smile, something of the old and faithful clerk, yet he was hardly more then twenty-two. She compared his old/young face with the more mature face of her son and for a moment wished Freddie were back to that innocence. He muttered the usual clichés, adding nothing that had not been said a dozen times by others and walked away, the books held under his arms in a firm grip that made the slender hands fade to whiteness around the knuckles.

  So stiff and formal, and anxious to say and do the right thing, Amy judged. He was in danger of losing his identity altogether. Freddie might be a worry with his adult concern for Sheila, but at least he had a strong character and was not afraid to reveal it.

  The horrors of the robbery faded but Amy was still uneasy for the period between turning off the downstairs lights and finally getting to sleep. She knew the likelihood of a repeat was minimal but feared hearing the sound of someone attempting to enter. She allowed Margaret to return to her own room, but wished she had both children within reach of her. The few yards seemed like miles each time a strange sound reached her tense ears and momentarily threatened their safety. Her nerves were on a switchback.

  She touched the pillow beside her, imagining what it would be like to have Victor sleeping there. She smiled to herself: making love in the bed would certainly be a novelty. Perhaps marriage would be too tame for me, she mused. Loving in odd places has a certain magic. She thought of the couch and the floor beside the fireplace, and smiled as she drifted into sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Billie Brown was large, very strong and confident that whatever situation life faced him with he could cope. There had never been a time when he had not been able to. Tall, muscular, with broad shoulders and hands that were delicate enough to mend the smallest watch, yet were capable of hauling out the most stubborn tree root, he seemed to most men and women the essence of manhood. The exception to his calm confidence was Amy. She made him tremble inside and feel inadequate and gauche.

  He had been distressed by the revelation that Victor had stayed overnight on two occasions and when he had discussed this with Mary, instead of reassuring him, she reminded him of Amy’s past affairs with married men.

  ‘Perhaps she prefers the fragility of an affair rather than a marriage that would be a permanent commitment,’ she ventured. ‘Not all women need the security of a marriage, and Amy has a good business and plenty of friends to help her when needed.’

  ‘Amy isn’t like that. She isn’t what Mam would have called a “loose woman”, Mary, and I don’t think you should suggest she is.’

  ‘I’m not saying she’s loose but I do think she plays with the idea of marriage and prefers her freedom.’

  ‘I want to marry her,’ Billie said, and watched his sister’s face to see if the idea worried her. ‘You don’t have to fear that your life will change, except you’d probably have less to do. Amy isn’t the sort to be lazy and she’d soon be finding ways to help around here.’

  Mary thought it very unlikely that Amy, with her pretty clothes and smart hairstyle, would enjoy the sort of work that kept Billie and herself busy for most of the hours of daylight, but she did not say so.

  ‘Have you talked to her about living here?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no, only hinted, like.’

  ‘Best you discuss it, explain what she would be taking on. It isn’t fair not to tell her what you’d expect of her.’

  Billie thought of the way he often saw Amy, laughing with Victor, sharing a foolish joke that he failed to see the humour of, Victor going to help her in the kitchen, fitting in with her wishes as if rehearsed. They looked so natural together it was hard to imagine himself in the same situation, although he, of course, would not help in the kitchen: that was woman’s
work.

  It was late morning and a lull in his work gave him the impulse to walk up through the wooded hill overlooking the farm to where Nelly’s cottage stood. He followed the stream then strode up through the trees and out at the top of Leighton’s field from where he could look down on the village. He stood for a while, idly watching the traffic passing below him, then strolled past Nelly’s cottage, where the dogs set up a chorus of barking, and made his dog snarl at them through their gate, then on to the furthest end of the village. Looking down at the toy-town scene below he recognised Victor’s van outside Amy’s shop. He saw Victor get into the driving cab and move off, leaving Amy standing waving at him until the van passed out of her sight.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said aloud. ‘Today I must start to persuade her that her happiness lies with me.’ Determination showing in his jutting chin, he walked briskly down Sheepy Lane and over to the shop. He saw that there were two customers inside and he leaned against the wall, considering what he would say, what impression he wanted to give. It was simple on the face of it. He wanted to take Amy out, have exclusive right to her spare time, be a part of her life and take Margaret and baby Sian into his care. The first move was to take Amy out, just the two of them, somewhere where they could talk, but it seemed an impossible hurdle.

  He had done all the usual things like call at the house, give help whenever he saw the opportunity, take her for a drink. It was not enough. If he were not careful he would lose her, if not to Victor, who wasn’t free, then to someone else she met, who could appear and sweep her off her feet in a matter of weeks, while he was dithering like a gormless schoolboy.

  Customers came and went and, if Amy had seen him standing nearby, she made no move to invite him inside. He stood, his head bent, eyes closed against dust disturbed by passing cars, and his mind drifted to his sister. She must be worried about how his marrying would affect her. She said so little about her thoughts and opinions. Mary only talked about her cows: worrying about fat content and whether the calf to be born would be male or female and what she would name it. The last two had been called Oliver and Margaret which had delighted the children enormously. The cows were Mary’s family, but would she accept that Margaret and Amy might be his? And perhaps baby Sian as well? The farm needed children around but would his bringing them there ruin Mary’s contentment?

  He walked the few paces to the shop steps and saw Amy mopping the floor. He hesitated, looking down at his boots which were covered with drying mud. He stood on the top step and said, ‘Hello, Amy, I wanted a word.’

  ‘Come in, Billie, the shop is empty, for the moment at least.’ She paused as she looked at his boots. ‘Oh Billie, if it isn’t your dog it’s your muddy boots!’

  He grinned and slipped them off, his feet, in their brown hand-knitted socks looking surprisingly large. She realised foolishly that a man’s unshod feet were not a common sight for her.

  She waited for him to tell her the reason for his call, and tidied up the cheese board and fussed with the stacks of greaseproof paper cut ready to wrap the pieces she sold.

  ‘It’s about Sunday,’ he said at last. ‘I was wondering if you and Margaret and Oliver would come to the farm and have tea. Mary makes lovely cakes.’

  ‘Thank you Billie. Any particular reason? A birthday or something?’ It was not an unusual occurrence so she was curious to know why he had waited so long for the shop to be empty before coming in to invite her.

  ‘No, no. Just I’d like to see you, and Margaret of course, for a chat.’

  ‘Will you come and fetch us or shall we walk down?’ she coaxed, sensing he wanted to add something more.

  ‘I’ll call and we can walk down through the fields. Margaret will like that, and young Oliver. I’ll carry Sian, no trouble. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Amy smiled. ‘Was there something else?’ He seemed quite ill at ease.

  ‘No, no. Look, there’s Netta Cartwright coming. See you on Sunday then, right?’

  ‘What time?’ Amy asked but he had slipped his feet into his boots and was already striding back across the road.

  Amy was serving Netta with some knitting wool when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs from the flat above. The side door opened and Mavis and Ralph stepped out. They waved at Amy and, as they passed the shop door, Mavis called, ‘We’re going up to see Sheila. I’ll be back to open up after lunch.’ They crossed the road and walked up Sheepy Lane.

  ‘I bet Sheila won’t be pleased to see them. She’s avoiding them. She knows they want her to come back to live with them.’

  ‘I can’t see why she doesn’t,’ Netta said with a frown. ‘Living up on the council houses with only a grandmother for company, it can’t be much fun for a young girl.’

  ‘I should think she’s had enough fun for a while!’ Amy said sharply.

  ‘Young, she is,’ Netta said gently, ‘and having to face troubles most adults would find daunting.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Amy admitted, ‘but no matter what problems she’s had, I still think she’s brought them on herself. Tried to involve my Freddie in her disasters, didn’t she? And what’s more, she still is. D’you know he spent a week’s leave with her and didn’t come to see Margaret and me? No, it’s no good, Netta, I can’t feel much sympathy. I think she’s one of those girls who’ll go through life sliding from one mess into the next. My only fear is that she’ll take Freddie with her.’

  ‘He’s a long way off most of the time and he’ll probably out-grow her.’

  ‘Perhaps, but not while she writes and pleads for his help. He got a twenty-four-hour pass and came home on compassionate grounds. Asked me to treat her like a daughter, would you believe? Me, befriend that one!’

  ‘We all have times we don’t want to look back on, or live through again.’ Netta spoke in her whispering voice, but glancing at her Amy knew that although her rosy face was gentle and calm she was being reminded that she too had made mistakes.

  ‘It’s easy to forget our own mistakes, Netta, and pretend they were the fault of someone else. But when your children are involved it’s different.’

  ‘Give it time and see what happens. Freddie’s so young.’

  ‘So was I once, and like I’m sure you must, I wonder where the years have gone.’

  * * *

  Mavis and Ralph walked up the steep hill towards St Illtyd’s Drive. The gardens were mostly planted with privet hedges and Mavis hoped these would shield the two of them from Sheila’s view as they approached. She guessed, although she would never have admitted it, that if her daughter saw them coming, she would slip out of the back door, down the garden and across the fields.

  It isn’t as if we were forcing her to do anything, Mavis complained silently, we only want what’s best for her like we always have.

  Sheila had been a difficult child and Mavis and Ralph had tried to protect her by restricting her going out. They refused to allow her to join Youth Clubs or even go out with the girls with whom she worked except after they had been thoroughly vetted in a tense teatime interview. The result was that Sheila had been forced into lying, which she found enjoyably easy. She had invited only the most boring and well-behaved girls home and had spent the rare evenings out with others who were more inclined to have fun. For Sheila, fun was synonymous with men.

  Leaving Ralph to knock formally at the front door, Mavis did an undignified dash around the kitchen door where she found her daughter, a coat around her shoulders, about to leave.

  ‘Hello, Mam, I can’t stop. I’ve got to go to the shop for Gran. She wants some Aspros.’

  ‘We’ll go together, later,’ Mavis said firmly. ‘We want to talk to you. Now.’

  ‘Oh, no. Is Dad there too?’

  ‘Of course. We both want to help you decide what to do next. Now the sad episode of the baby is over, you must start making plans for the future.’ As she spoke, Mavis walked forward, forcing her daughter to walk out of the kitchen and into the hall, where Mavis opened the
door and let Ralph inside.

  ‘Sheila, glad we’ve caught you at last,’ Ralph said. ‘Is your Gran here?’

  ‘Still in bed. She’s got a bit of a cold. Call her, shall I?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Mavis said firmly. ‘Come and sit down in the kitchen.’ She pulled a chair from under the table and pressed Sheila down into it.

  ‘When are you going back to work, Sheila?’ Ralph asked. ‘Best for you not to be idle for long.’

  ‘What work? I gave up the job in the gown-shop when I left to have– when the baby was due.’

  Ralph was embarrassed to see tears in Sheila’s eyes and he turned away, defeated.

  ‘All right, go and see the manageress. See if she’ll have you back,’ Mavis persisted. ‘Sheila, you have to work. You can’t hang around here looking after Gran. You’re young and you want a career.’

  ‘I don’t want a career. I want a husband and a home of my own.’

  ‘Well, you had a husband and see how far that got you!’ Mavis was determined to make Sheila face facts and, unlike Ralph, was undeterred by their daughter’s tearful face. ‘Gone he is, that Maurice Davies, and you won’t be seeing him again or I’m very mistaken. Bad lot, he was. Best for you to be clear of him but until you can end the marriage you’ll have to get on with the rest of your life. Now, what would you like to do?’

  Sheila shrugged and stared wistfully at the back door wishing she could get up and run out through it leaving her parents to pick the bones of her life over without her having to listen.

  ‘What your father and I would like to do is either come back here where we all lived so happily, or persuade you to come and live with us at the flat. The choice is yours. Working at the shop, I find the flat very convenient and your father’s bus stop is only across the road, but you say what you want. Will you come to us, or shall we come back here?’