The Changing Valley

  ‘You know I’ll have to give up my job at the factory now, don’t you?’ Tad said when he went to fetch her down for breakfast. ‘I tried to work so we’d have a bit of extra money but now it’s finished. I gave them my word I’d watch you, so we’ll have to manage on the dole money.’

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  ‘No you aren’t, Dawn. But you will be. There’ll be no money for anything except food, I’ll have to buy what clothes you need in jumble sales, and you can forget about money for films and developing.’

  ‘But you’ll be here all the time,’ Dawn said, thinking of the joy of not coming home to an empty house.

  ‘Oh yes, unfortunately I’ll be on your tail every moment of the day and night. Dawn, I haven’t asked much from you. I tried to make sure you weren’t made to grow up before your time, by being expected to do the shopping and the ironing and cooking. I’ve dealt with all that and I’m shattered to think that you repaid me by stealing from our neighbours.’

  Dawn began to see that the changes were going to be less exciting than she first thought. Having Dad home all day was fine, but without pocket money how would she manage not to steal again?

  ‘Do you think that if I promised not to touch the milk money again, they would let you stay on at the factory?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘I don’t think I’d like being dressed at jumble sales, everyone would know and…’

  ‘I don’t think they – or I – can trust you to keep your word.’ Tad’s eyes were sorrowful and he crossed his arms over his chest and clasped his shoulders tightly, walking up and down the room in his distress.

  ‘You can. I know they meant it when they said they’d go to the police next time.’

  Her face was so drained of colour and her eyes red with crying and Tad’s heart turned over. He had to take most of the blame for how she behaved.

  ‘I’ll ask them,’ he replied gruffly. ‘But if I ever even suspect you of taking anything belonging to someone else, I’ll take you to the police myself! It’ll mean you going into a home, then. Understand?’

  Dawn ate her breakfast and thought about finding the money for her photography. For her, the camera given to her by Nelly was the only thing in her life that gave her pleasure. It would all be so different if she had a family like the children at school had, she thought wistfully. Then she would have so much to do that she wouldn’t need to do things for a ‘dare’.

  * * *

  On the day when Oliver was to spend the evening and night with Nelly and George, Evie came to inspect the room he would use. She came to the house with her usual wariness, even holding up her skirt to make sure it did not rub against the walls as she went up the curving staircase and into the back bedroom, recently vacated by George. She lifted the green candlewick bed-cover which Nelly had borrowed from Amy, looked at the white sheets and nodded approval.

  ‘Disappointed, are yer?’ Nelly couldn’t resist asking. ‘Expecting the bed to be full of fleas? Or—’

  ‘All right, Mother. Don’t go into details. I know I’m fussy, but he’s my son and very precious to me.’

  Nelly could have found a sharp reply to that but she bit her tongue.

  They went back down the stairs and Evie declined the tea her mother offered, although Nelly had put out her best cups and saucers on the polished tray that George and Oliver had made.

  ‘I really don’t have time, Mother, but thank you,’ Evie surprised her by saying. ‘You have clearly made an effort to make things nice for Oliver.’

  ‘I love ’im too, yer know.’

  The dinner Evie and Timothy were to attend began at eight o’clock and Oliver was sent to the cottage before five.

  ‘Mother needed time to calm down,’ Oliver explained seriously.

  ‘Good, you’ll be here when George gets in from work. We’ve got time for a walk before ’and if you like?’

  They wandered through the trees and Oliver climbed up into the tree house, looking down at Nelly and telling her all he could see from the extra height. The day was a dull one with a mist lying over the wood making it secluded and private.

  ‘I bet I could see as far as Billie’s farm if the sun was shining, ’ Oliver boasted.

  They arrived back at the gate at the same time as George, who was carrying a sack of logs across his shoulders.

  ‘Glad to see you, Oliver. You can help me stack this wood.’

  Leaving the man and the boy busily arranging the wood against the side of the shed, Nelly went in to take the casserole from the oven. The potatoes were simmering gently on the fire and, when they were soft, she strained them and called them in for their meal. Bobby and Spotty sat, tails wagging, tongues lolling and dribbling, beside Nelly’s chair.

  ‘Oh, Gran. I thought we were having potatoes baked under the fire!’

  ‘Them’s fer supper.’

  ‘Mother doesn’t let me have supper–’ He was so clearly disappointed that Nelly laughed.

  ‘That’s why Gawd gives us grans as well as mothers. Grans ’ave different rules, Ollie. Supper is at eight before you get ready fer bed at nine.’

  Oliver ate contentedly.

  ‘This is ridiculous, George,’ Nelly said much later when Oliver was asleep and they sat near the open door watching the dying day.

  ‘What’s ridiculous, love?’

  ‘Me, gettin’ all excited at sharin’ a room with me ’usband.’ George laughed and stood up, his tall figure bending to help her from her chair.

  ‘Come on, I think it’s time we went to see if we can both fit into that bed of yours.’

  It had begun to rain soon after Oliver and Nelly had left the woods and now it fell steadily and without haste, shushing on the leaves and falling dully on the grass. It hissed on the water of the stream and squelched under Nelly’s wellingtons as she marched into her part of the wood to attend to her late-night routine.

  She was so still that a man passed within a few feet of her without knowing she was there. He was dressed against the weather in dark concealing coat and hood and Nelly did not recognise him, although she thought at first that it might be Griff after a few rabbits or a pheasant from the estate further on. Was he a tramp, she wondered sorrowfully, wishing she could invite him to stay with her and George, if he was wandering. But he was more likely to be a poacher, like Griff. She saw no gun, but a poacher would have it broken and hidden under his clothing anyway. For a moment nervousness made her shiver as she thought he might be the mysterious prowler who had robbed so many houses in the village. She waited for a few minutes before adjusting her clothes and returning to the cottage.

  She closed the gate and fixed the latch firmly and smiled at the stupid precaution and the fear that had instigated it. As if a wooden gate would keep anyone out! She undressed by the low fire while George went into the trees and then let the dogs out for their final run. The dogs were restless.

  ‘There’s someone about out there,’ George said.

  ‘Poachers, I expect.’ Nelly banked up the fire with small coals and ashes and lit her candle to go upstairs. ‘Lock the door, will yer?’

  George did so, using the large key from the mantelpiece, surprised at her request. The cottage door had never been locked since he had known Nelly. Perhaps, he thought, it was the responsibility for young Oliver. Taking a second candle, he lit it with a taper of newspaper and followed Nelly upstairs.

  Nelly was in bed and her candle snuffed out. He undressed and put on pyjama trousers and hesitated. Nelly pushed back the covers and snuggled up to him as he slid in beside her. He put an arm around her and enfolded her tightly.

  ‘We’ve never had a cuddle before,’ he whispered, ‘not like this.’

  ‘You’re ’ere George, that’s what matters, no matter ’ow we live, you’re ’ere an’ I’m glad o’ that.’

  ‘I haven’t spoilt things for you, have I? Staying here I mean? I married you so Evie would leave you in peace. I didn’t intend to stay. I was determined not to, in fact. There was no sense saving you fro
m Evie and spoiling things for you in another way.’

  ‘She’s a dragon, ain’t she, my Evie?’ She laughed and happiness seemed to burst out of her like bubbles. ‘George and the dragon!’ she laughed.

  ‘Henry,’ he chuckled, his white beard tickling her face.

  ‘Yes. Henry. I’m sorry, but I can’t think of you as ’Enry Masters. To me you’re George an’ always will be.’

  ‘George is good enough for me, my dear Nelly.’ He kissed her and she laughed again.

  ‘I likes yer beard. People thought I was daft buying you a razor for a present last Christmas. Thought I was wanting you to shave it off. They don’t know how fussy you are about keepin’ it neat.’

  ‘You’ll tell me if I ever make you less than happy, won’t you?’

  ‘O’ course. Not that you ever could. Now, shift yer arm or you’ll wake up as stiff as a yard of frozen pump water in the mornin’.’ Holding hands they settled to sleep.

  Nelly had just reached the drowsy stage when everything was pleasantly hazy when she heard Oliver calling.

  ‘He might be frightened in a strange room,’ George whispered.

  ‘Come on in, Ollie,’ Nelly yelled.

  The small boy came in beside her. He was cold and grateful for the warmth of her. He tried to think of a reason to justify leaving his room, where trees near the wall were making strange sounds as the rain dripped from the leaves and a branch would occasionally touch the window with whispered tapping. The symphony of the night hours was more noticeable here at the edge of the wood, and imagination gave the innocent sounds an eeriness Ollie found disturbing. But as usual, Nelly did not expect explanations.

  ‘There were ten in the bed and the little one said roll over,’ Nelly began to sing. ‘They all rolled over and one fell out; there were nine in the bed and the little one said roll over…’

  Nelly still had the tune running through her head long after George and Oliver had fallen silent. She closed her eyes until the light of the new dawn streaked the walls with light, and the birds announced the arrival of a new day.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Constable Harris talked to several people to find out who was where at the time of the concert. Several mentioned the late arrival and early departure of Tad Simmons, and with some trepidation he went to question the man.

  ‘I’m just preparing a plan of where people were on the evening in question,’ he explained and to his relief Tad answered crisply and without apparent anger.

  ‘I left work a bit late. I work odd shifts at the factory, brushing the floor and cleaning machines. There had been some spillage and I stayed to clear it up. I got to the concert still in my working clothes – a neighbour had got Dawn ready for her part in the choir. I came home early to cook Dawn’s supper. All right?’

  ‘Thank you for your co-operation–’ Harris was suddenly talking to a closed door. ‘Miserable old cuss!’ he exclaimed. Later, he walked to the village, passing Nelly’s house. It was always a good idea to talk to her. Sharp eyes she had, old Nelly. She was overlooked by many; her being so much a part of the scene, people were hardly aware of her presence sometimes.

  The garden of the cottage was a shambles. Workmen and their clutter covered the lawn, the chickens were locked in their pen and grouped around the door chortling anxiously at the unusual confinement. The dogs were sniffing at the tools and the workmen’s jackets, in the hope of something edible. Nelly was in her kitchen.

  ‘Blimey, Nelly, it’s like World War Three out there! Come to start your drains, have they?’

  ‘Drains, taps and a bleedin’ bath!’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Glad you think so! Look what they’ve done to me garden. An’ me poor ’ens don’t know what’s ’appening. Fed up they are, but I daren’t let ’em out fer fear that they’ll wander. Still, I suppose it’ll be worth it, though what all the fuss is about I don’t know. Managed without a bathroom all me life an’ never missed it.’

  He asked her who was at the concert and who left early. ‘You didn’t see anyone you weren’t expecting to, or not see someone who should have been there?’

  ‘Well, them Evanses bought tickets but they weren’t there. I expect she was working. Hilda ’elps Milly Toogood’s daughter in the fish-an’-chip shop.’

  ‘Why is it, Nelly, that Milly Toogood’s daughter doesn’t have a name? Whenever I mention her she’s always “Milly Toogood’s daughter”.’

  Nelly moved closer, confidentially. ‘Seems it’s on account of ’er marriage. Says she married a Yankie soldier just before the end of the war, but none of us ’as ever seen ’im. Embarrassin’ not knowin’ what to call ’er. Can’t shout “Morning Mrs Yank” can we? And Milly ain’t the sort to confide in anyone. So, she’s Milly’s daughter. Bethan to some.’

  ‘I’ll go down and ask about Hilda. Thanks Nelly.’

  ‘Ask about that ’usband of ’ers too.’ She was tempted to tell the constable how Griff had diddled her out of a thirty-three to one winner but remembered in time that bookies runners were not smiled upon by the police. ‘An’ that son of theirs with ’is motorbike.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, I will.’ Constable Harris nodded to the workmen, now knocking a hole in the side of the cottage, and departed.

  Nelly, her hands covering her ears against the noise, shouted to the men and asked if they wanted food.

  ‘We’ve all brought sandwiches, thanks,’ a young boy shouted back.

  ‘I’ll bring you back some chips if you like,’ she yelled. Taking the money and orders for several bags of chips, she went down to the village with the dogs. There wasn’t anything she needed, but the mess and the noise forced her out. Netta Cartwright was out too but she found her in Amy’s shop.

  ‘I’m rising the last of the wool Amy has put away for me, for the dress Prue is making.’ Netta paid Amy for the last two balls of fine white wool.

  ‘Still at it then, is she? Well done, Netta. Gettin’ ’er interested was a clever move.’

  ‘You’ve helped Prue a lot,’ Amy agreed. ‘She was so lethargic I thought she would never recover.’

  ‘Yes, she was coming on well and had started to talk quite freely – the old Prue, disapproving of everyone as always. Then the police went to interview her about the robbery and that upset her something awful. It was a young constable,’ Netta explained, ‘and he wasn’t to know about the other burglary, when someone broke in and killed poor Harry.’

  ‘I hoped she wouldn’t have been told, her being so ill,’ Amy said. ‘It’s bound to set her back, isn’t it?’

  Nelly said nothing. She remembered with painful clarity the moment she had seen Prue and her husband fighting. She saw again the poker in Prue’s raised hands coming down on Harry’s head. She’d known something terrible had happened, and she’d been right. She had never told anyone what she saw, deciding that Prue had not intended to kill Harry but had lost her temper, probably finding out about Harry and Amy’s affair. She did not want the story to come out and bring embarrassment and disgrace to Amy and her children.

  ‘Don’t you think so, Nelly?’ Netta was saying in her quiet voice, and Nelly jerked herself out of her daydream to join in the conversation about the improvements in Prue’s health.

  The constable was going into the chip shop as Nelly reached the door and stood back for her to enter.

  ‘You’ll find Hilda Evans around the back,’ she whispered as the sizzling of frying chips greeted them. ‘Doin’ the spuds in the yard, she is.’

  ‘Thank you, Nelly,’ the policeman smiled.

  Nelly’s grubby finger beckoned him closer and she added, ‘’E gambles, ’er ’usband does. Works at the forestry and spends a lot on the ’orses and that’s why she ’as to work out there peelin’ spuds.’

  Harris repeated his thanks.

  Nelly took her time joining the small queue for her order, hoping to overhear what was said between Bethan and the constable, but she saw him laugh, take the bag of chips Bethan insisted on
giving him, and walk out. ‘Come on,’ she then grumbled loudly. ‘Invisible, am I? I ain’t got all day, you know!’

  When she reached home there was far less noise. The men had disappeared, tools had fallen silent and the hole in the wall was being neatened by a young boy.

  ‘Ain’t finished already, ’ave they? I’ve brought their chips.’

  ‘They won’t be long. Gone to put a bet on up at The Drovers,’ the boy told her.

  ‘Blimey, I’d ’ave done that for ’em. Don’t tell PC ’Arris about The Drovers, will yer?’

  ‘He probably knows already. It’s hardly a secret,’ the boy said, throwing a discarded stone on to a pile at the edge of the lawn.

  ‘Ere, watch where you’re throwin’ them stones!’ she shouted as the last one rolled towards the door.

  She went inside and put the parcels of chips to keep warm in the fire-heated oven and began to make tea. She felt guilty at her lack of friendliness towards the workmen. She had offered them food – anyone would do that – but she showed by her attitude that the mess they were making to give her a bathroom that she didn’t really want was unwelcome. She always enjoyed company but the thought of them knocking through the wall to put a bathroom in the small room beside the back door made her uneasy.

  She was used to bathrooms, having cleaned for various ladies over the years, but did not remotely feel the need for one. ‘Damn that Evie,’ she muttered as she put the kettle over the heat. ‘Always interferin’ an’ messin’ things up.’ She had walked into the woods first thing every morning for as long as she had been in Hen Carw Parc and, well content with every aspect of her life, feared change.

  When the workmen came back she offered them tea and forced herself to join in their conversations as they sat and ate their food. The subject was racing, one dear to her heart and the friendly approach ended up an enjoyable hour, after which the men had to make haste to get their allotted tasks completed.

  That night, she and George went to the pictures to see a Cinemascope offering, ‘King of the Khyber Rifles’ with Tyrone Power and Michael Rennie. They stopped at The Drovers on the way home and when they went to bed George did not go to his own bed, where the covers were still thrown back as Oliver had left them, but joined Nelly in hers.