‘Yes, indeed,’ another voice added, ‘this meeting has been publicised, hasn’t it?’
Harris raised his arms asking them to remain seated. ‘Mr Chartridge will pass around some pieces of paper and I want you to write down anything you think might help.’
Timothy was standing near the constable and he passed some scrap paper along the rows of people, and waited while pens and pencils were found and shared as the papers were filled.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ boomed Bert in his best sergeant’s voice, ‘we don’t want to be here all night. Let’s get them papers passed back so we can get home and see that our houses are safe.’
Too late he saw the constable trying to hush him. Several people stood and began pushing their way through the rows in panic at the thought of their endangered homes. Chairs scraped and fell in the sudden confusion and Archie, who was sitting in the middle of a row, crawled under some of the chairs, causing consternation to the ladies as he brushed their legs.
‘Bleedin’ chaos as usual, where Bert is concerned,’ Nelly muttered to George. But she could not help laughing as the crush in the door became a tangle of arms, legs and umbrellas and no one could get in or out.
Order was somehow restored but not before over half the people had departed. PC Harris told Bert to sit down and he and the sergeant from Llan Gwyn began again. This time, there were several useful remarks, mainly regarding the various cafes and public houses frequented by villagers where tips about people’s movements could be gathered.
Nelly wrote on her piece of paper:
Gerry and Pete aren’t the only ones with bikes.
Ask at the garage where they work. They mend most of the bikes in the area.
Have a look at Dawn’s photographs.
George wrote:
Why motorbikes? It’s usually only money that’s taken and that is easy to carry away.
They walked home in a night that was clear now the rain clouds had at last drifted on eastwards, both chuckling over the evening’s events.
‘You don’t worry about being robbed, Nelly?’ George asked.
‘No, Gawd ’elp us. I ain’t got enough to make it worth their while and we never has any money in the ’ouse, do we?’
‘No, but d’you think we ought to start locking the door at night?’
Again Nelly shook her head. ‘Doubt if it would lock anyway. It’s dropped again after you tried to fix it.’
Down in the village, Ethel had managed to shut her front door firmly enough to turn the key but had been unable to open it the next morning. It was not until her son, Phil, called with the post that she had been able to go out, except by the back and through the field, so she abandoned the idea completely and decided to leave her door open in future.
Amy was uneasy about walking home with the day’s takings as she occasionally had in the past, and Billie offered to come every evening and take it to the night safe at the bank for her. Victor added a bolt to each of her doors and checked her window fastenings. With the approach of the dark evenings, it seemed the risk of robberies would increase, but in fact there were no more. There was a spate of similar break-ins to some of the houses on the outskirts of Llan Gwyn, but these were far enough away not to cause much anxiety.
* * *
After the sickness following the bag of cockles, Fay avoided the markets and fish shops where the smell of them filled the air, mingling with the wonderful smell of freshly baked bread and boiled ham. Instead she ordered bread at Amy’s shop and called each evening as she finished her day’s work. Occasionally she would be too late, then Amy would send it over to Netta, and Netta would receive a rare visit from her daughter-in-law.
One evening in mid-September, Fay had not arrived to collect her bread at six-thirty and Netta walked to and from the front window looking for her. The television was on low so she half listened to it, and half listened for the sound of Fay’s car. At a quarter to seven she decided that Fay had forgotten to call and she put on a coat and picked up a torch to walk up to St David’s Close.
As she stepped out of her door, Fay’s car stopped at the gate.
‘Fay?’ Netta called. ‘Are you all right? Worried I’ve been, thinking of you trying to mend a puncture or something like that, all on your own in the dark.’
Fay didn’t get out of the car, but just held out a hand to take the ‘Swansea’ loaf.
‘I’m all right, Mother. I just got held up, that’s all.’
Something in Fay’s voice made Netta step closer and she bent down to enquire further, but Fay had moved back over to the driving seat and was revving the engine in a hurry to be off.
‘Of course, I mustn’t keep you chattering. Johnny will be worried too,’ Netta said then added, ‘Oh, of course, he’s on the late shift and won’t know, will he?’ She had no time to say any more, the car moved on and she saw Fay’s hand wave a brief farewell as she moved slowly past the school and on, to turn up Sheepy Lane to the council houses.
* * *
Fay drove up the lane, impatient to be home. The bread order was a nuisance. Tomorrow she would cancel it. It seemed to give Netta the right to check on her comings and goings, she thought unreasonably. There were plenty of shops where she could buy a loaf, for heaven’s sake!
She was in a temper. The day had been a bad one from the start. First of all, it being a Wednesday, she had promised herself she would avoid the place where she knew Dexter would be waiting for her. Then Johnny had asked her to go to some stupid skittles game at The Drovers. The landlord had decided to open a skittle alley that hadn’t been used for years, hoping to make more money for the church-hall fund. Skittles! she thought with increased anger. She was sick of the village and the small, boring things they expected her to enjoy. Johnny knew how she felt about it, yet, still insisted she joined in the silly nonsense.
The journey to her first call had been a nightmare of traffic holdups where mud from recent rains had blocked the drains. She had changed her route to get free of the area and the new one took her part of the way down to Pembrokeshire. On impulse, driven by the irritation brought on by the invitation to go and watch the stupid skittles match, she drove on.
She reached the place at twelve and decided to tempt fate and see if Dexter had arrived earlier than he had said. If he isn’t there, she promised some imaginary overseer of morals, if he hasn’t arrived, I’ll go away and never come back here. Having passed responsibility for her behaviour into the hands of the fates, she walked into the restaurant.
He was there. Standing against the bar, tall, elegant, lean and very handsome and obviously delighted to see her. Her anger against the day faded in the warmth of his smile. She forgot her anger at Johnny, skittles, and the traffic that had brought her here and saw only him.
He kissed her lightly then found a table where he ordered wine and offered her the menu to choose her meal. He took her hand and pressed it against his heart. His obvious pleasure at her coming lit his hazel eyes so they glowed with those fascinating touches of gold. His reddish hair, so neat and well groomed tempted her to reach out and touch, his lips, full and generous, seemed close enough for her to kiss them. She lowered her gaze, afraid he would see her thoughts in her eyes.
They both chose fish and as they ate their meal, slowly spending the time talking, getting to know one another Fay felt the tensions of the past days slip away from her. Dexter knew how to wine and dine a woman. He would never suggest taking her to watch a skittles match between the council houses and the village! She imagined being escorted to a London theatre, or to a grand ball, where she would wear a beautiful gown and Dexter would dazzle every woman in the room with his good looks and immaculate clothes.
Defiantly, she did not hurry to return to her calls. Johnny, having been disappointed at her reaction to the skittles invitation, had told her he would change his shift and work late to allow someone else to take part. Well, she was not going to hurry home and sit waiting for him. She hinted to Dexter that she was not rushi
ng back and waited for him to suggest how they might spend their afternoon. He seemed delighted at first that she was free, but then told her he had to be back for a six o’clock appointment.
‘But until then,’ he whispered, gazing at her with adoring eyes, ‘I want to spend every moment with you.’
They discussed places to go and finally admitted that for the limited time they had together, they could only walk and talk.
‘I don’t want to share you with anyone, I want you to myself. I want to know everything about you,’ Dexter told her.
So they walked along the sea front of the small town, the wind making Fay wish she had worn something other than the thin costume and the lace-edged blouse she had chosen. But she hid the shivers she occasionally felt as they met a particularly windy corner and did not utter a complaint. Dexter was wearing an overcoat and seemed unaware that she was less well clad. Holding his hand and feeling the chill wind on her face was heavenly compared with locals throwing balls down the stone floor of the skittle alley! What did a shiver or two matter compared with that?
At five-thirty he walked her back to the car and got in beside her. The comparative warmth of the car seemed to disturb her and she felt a twinge of discomfort as if she were about to be sick. Alarmed, she opened the window and took a few deep breaths.
‘I love the smell of the sea,’ she said as an excuse for her odd behaviour, but her voice was breathless when she spoke, as if her lungs could not contain enough air for her words. The wind was beginning to gust as the tide reached its height and the car rocked slightly. He turned towards her and she saw the desire in his eyes. His breathing became as shallow as hers.
Closing her eyes to receive his kisses, filled with longing, she suddenly felt its urgency leave her. Opening her eyes in alarm she saw his features swim before her and, pushing him aside, just managed to get out of the car before sickness overwhelmed her.
The moment was utterly and permanently ruined. She could not look at him, her eyes were filled with tears from the violence of the sickness.
‘It must have been the fish,’ she mumbled in a voice that did not sound like her own. She hid her face in a handkerchief. ‘I’d better go home.’
He had left the car and had been standing well back from her. He stepped a fraction closer and asked solicitously, ‘Will you be all right? I feel I should stay with you but…’
‘I’ll be all right. You go,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll – we’ll meet again, won’t we?’
‘Of course. Next week if you can manage it. Thank you for coming, I’m so sorry the meal upset you.’
‘It’s so strange,’ she said. ‘I know fish upsets me. I can’t think why I ordered it.’
She sat in the car for an age, with the windows down letting the now gusting wind cool her and clear the awful sensation the biliousness had left. Then she drove slowly home, wondering if she were ill. To have had two bouts of sickness was odd and she went over all she had eaten. It must have been the fish. Why did it attract her so when she knew it did not agree with her?
She was devastated by the unbelievably awful end of her few hours with Dexter and wondered sadly if he would ever want to see her again. Being sick, of all things, and timing it so that it was as if the thought of his kiss had revolted her. She was feeling humiliated and miserable by the time she stopped to collect the loaf of bread from Netta and could hardly bring herself to say ‘hello’.
The house was empty and she thankfully stripped off and sank into a warm bath. She didn’t dress again, but slipped on a nightdress and a silky dressing gown. When Johnny came home at eleven-thirty, she was asleep in the armchair they had recently bought and he carried her to bed without her waking.
The following morning she was sick before she had eaten, and knew with chilly certainty that she was pregnant.
* * *
Sheila continued to meet Nigel and, although she avoided discussing her recent past and avoided introducing him to others who might let things slip, they managed to develop a friendly relationship. She had not introduced Nigel to her parents, afraid that one of them would consider it their duty to tell the young man about the marriage and the baby, and Nigel had not, so far, suggested taking her home to meet his family, about whom he frequently talked with obvious affection.
One day they were meeting for a brief lunch-date in ‘their’ cafe, when a girl came in and hailed Nigel in surprise.
‘Nigel, I’ve been looking for you. Fancy coming to the dance tonight? All the usual crowd will be there and we haven’t seen you for ages.’
Sheila sat back in her chair as if stepping aside for Nigel to discuss things about which she knew nothing. Nigel was clearly embarrassed and showed it. Forgetting to introduce Sheila, he said he might come, and thanked the girl, who walked out with a final wave and a brief, curious glance at Sheila.
‘Who was that?’ she forced herself to ask lightly.
‘One of the dancing crowd,’ he said, taking refuge behind his cup of tea.
‘The dance crowd? I never knew you liked dancing, Nigel?’
‘We enter competitions, six of us. You must come and watch us one night. The new season’s about to begin.’
‘I’d love to,’ Sheila smiled. ‘Fancy you being a dancer. I never dreamed—’
‘I haven’t told you because, well, because I’d feel a bit silly with you watching me,’ he admitted. ‘Competitions are a bit tense and I’d be put off, knowing you were there. I can’t concentrate on anything when I’m with you, Sheila.’
‘Nigel,’ she said softly.
‘Perhaps later on when…’
‘When you don’t care as much?’ This coyness was a surprising side to him. He had always seemed so confident. And the dancing suggested he was able spend a lot of money on his hobby: the dresses were costly and all the dancers must contribute to the cost of those yards of tulle and lace. She’d always known he was prosperous, but perhaps he was rich as well as attractive?
‘When I’m used to being with you,’ he corrected. ‘You are so lovely, I can’t believe my luck that you bother with dull old me.’
‘Not so dull,’ she said smiling up into his eyes. ‘Full of surprises, that’s what you are, Nigel Knighton. Full of surprises. I like that, mind, I like life to have a few mysteries, don’t you?’
That evening, Sheila did not go straight home. Defying her parents, she wandered around the town and then went to a public house, ordered a drink boldly at the bar and sat with it, watching the faces of the men. They were put out with her being there and their eyes turned towards her as they whispered about the cheek of women entering a man’s province. She sipped her drink and refused to be made to leave.
Although she appeared confident, she was relieved to see a familiar face. Victor Honeyman came in, went to order a pint then saw her.
‘Sheila? Waiting for someone are you?’
‘No, I just couldn’t face the crowded bus, so I thought I’d wait and get a later one.’
‘I see.’ He didn’t see why a young girl would want to wait in a public house instead of going home, but thought that she was in fact waiting for the boyfriend people had heard about. He did not approach her, and soon began a conversation with two men in the furthest corner.
‘A gold watch, you say?’ Victor said when the men offered him some jewellery. ‘Yes, I might be interested in that.’ They discussed prices for a while and Victor agreed to meet them there the following evening. When he went out, he was so excited at getting the watch he wanted for Amy, he forgot all about Sheila, walking past her without a word, his mind on the scene when he would give Amy the watch he had stopped smoking to save for.
* * *
The number of televisions in the village had increased and this was having an effect on the activities. Neighbour invited neighbour in to watch favourite programmes so the conversation each morning in Amy’s shop was often about the previous evening’s offerings.
Netta, who was one of the first to have a television set,
bemoaned the fact that the numbers joining the sewing circle to make things for the Autumn Fair were far too few.
‘This sale of work we’re planning won’t be much of a success if we don’t persuade our members to come back soon,’ she confided in Amy one morning in September. ‘There’s a dozen of us where there used to be forty.’
‘It’s no use asking me, Netta,’ Amy laughed. ‘You’d spend all your time unravelling what I’d done and putting it right again!’
‘Your Prue was good,’ Netta sighed. ‘I know she was a bit difficult, but she did work hard and she encouraged others so they did their best too.’
‘Have you been to see her lately?’ Amy asked.
‘Yes, indeed. I see her regularly and, I must say Amy, she’s improving. Getting back some of her spirit. I have to watch what I say now, whereas a few weeks ago she hardly seemed to know I was there.’
‘She’s coming home for the weekend on Friday,’ Amy told her. ‘The first time she’s slept away from that place since she went in. I hope it goes well. It could be the beginning of her recovery.’ She covered the cheese with vinegar-soaked muslin to keep it fresh and added anxiously, ‘She seemed to want to come, but keeps asking if Freddie will be there. She says she won’t come if he’s home. Pretends she doesn’t want to make things difficult for me but I know it’s not that.’ She laughed a bit harshly. ‘Since when has Prue worried about making things difficult for me? No, she wants to avoid Freddie.’
‘He was home a few weeks since. There isn’t much chance of him getting home again for a while, is there?’
‘I told her that, but she still seems worried.’
‘Perhaps it’s her illness confusing her. Harry dying made Freddie leave the firm and join the army, didn’t it? In her mind that must be what’s worrying her.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘She’ll soon be back to her normal self. Now she’s started to get better things will improve faster, for sure.’
The Changing Valley Page 32