‘Go home, Mavis,’ Amy said when she had recovered sufficiently to speak. ‘I’m closing the shop.’
When Mavis had returned to her flat, Amy sat close to Margaret after lifting Sian out of her playpen. She was glad of the little hands grabbing her and the warm dependent body against her own. Sian and Margaret were all she had, and soon there would be only Margaret.
She walked home with mixed feelings. Suddenly Victor was free but in such a wretched way it was like a punishment to them all for having wished it. Achieving their right to be together in such a manner – depriving Delina, David and Daniel of their mother – how could they ever rejoice in it?
* * *
Nelly took Dawn’s hand and ran to Evie’s house, where she found her daughter crouched in an armchair, head buried in her hands.
‘Where’s young Ollie?’ was Nelly’s first question.
‘He’s gone to lie down,’ Evie sobbed. ‘Oh, I feel terrible. Causing a death! I’ll never sit in a driving seat again!’
‘Wasn’t your fault, Evie. No one could ’ave known she’d ’ave an ’eart attack, could they? I’ll just go up an’ see if Ollie’s all right. I don’t think ’e should be on ’is own and worryin’. Come on, Dawn.’ She clumped up the stairs, followed by a hesitant Dawn, and for once Evie did not complain about the mud they had brought in.
Oliver was sitting on his bed reading a Rupert Annual.
‘All right, young Ollie?’ Nelly asked brightly. She carried with her the shopping bag she had brought from the sale of work, and from it she produced a bag of home-made toffee. ‘’Ere, stuff one of them inside yer. Good they are, sugar’s good fer shock. You too, Dawn.’
‘Did Mother make that lady die, Gran?’
‘O’ course not! What an idea! Feelin’ a bit upset by what ’appened she is, but she didn’t do nothin’ except bash yer dad’s car.’ She sat reading to him for a long time, then, realising he had fallen asleep, crept downstairs and rejoined Evie.
Mrs Norwood Bennet-Hughes had arrived with Timothy and they were sitting, talking quietly.
‘I give ’im a couple of toffees, Evie,’ she reported.
‘Oh, Mother, he’ll be sick.’
‘Good fer ’im, a bit of sugar. ’E’s ’ad a shock too, for Gawd’s sake! Tell you something else. My mother told me the best thing fer shock is to ’ave a pee straight away and that takes the shock from yer.’
Timothy winced and glanced at their visitor, who only nodded and smiled.
‘That might ’ave been a worse shock fer Evie if she ’ad, though,’ Nelly went on. ‘’Er being so fussed about what people thinks of ’er!’
‘Mother, please!’
George came to Evie’s as soon as he heard and he and Nelly walked back home with Dawn.
‘Your Dad will know where to find you, Dawn,’ George assured her, ‘and in this rain I think you’re better with us than in your house on your own. It can make you lonely, looking out on rain.’
‘The dogs’ll be that pleased to see yer,’ Nelly added.
As they passed they saw PC Harris sheltering in the doorway of Amy’s shop. They heard a bus approaching and paused to see him go and greet Victor and his youngest son. The group huddled together for a moment, a sombre sight in dark raincoats and a large black umbrella. Then they turned, and walking slowly, disregarding the pouring rain, they disappeared up Sheepy Lane.
‘The bleedin’ weather suits the occasion fer once,’ Nelly groaned. She put an arm around Dawn. ‘They’ll cope though, won’t they, Dawn? Just like you did when you lost your mum, eh?’
* * *
Amy did not see Victor immediately after the accident. She felt unable to go to the house and offer sympathy so, apart from a brief note addressed to the family, there was no contact at all. It seemed that in death, Imogine had come between them as she had not managed to in life.
* * *
A week after the funeral Victor finally called to see Amy, who was packing her things, preparing to go back to the flat. She opened the door and he walked in, ill at ease and not, for once, going straight to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He spoke to Margaret, asked about her new piano pieces, and seemed unable to meet Amy’s eye.
For her too the encounter was a difficult one. She was uptight, embarrassed, stiff. She could not imagine leaning towards him and greeting him with a kiss, even if Margaret had not been there as chaperone. He was a stranger. She stood near Margaret as if using her as a shield, and invited him to stay for tea and, when he refused, she felt only relief.
‘Come again soon,’ she said as he left a few minutes later, explaining that he had only called to see if they were both all right.
What had happened to them? The dream had come true but the process had distorted what they thought they had, making their love for each other unimportant, almost childish in its romantic furtiveness.
* * *
Victor returned to work the following week and, when he called with a delivery, Amy tried to act as if nothing had happened to change things.
‘Go on in, Victor, love, and make us a cup of tea, will you?’ He did so and, between serving customers, they talked.
‘There’s so much to sort out,’ he said, and the remark was so ambiguous that Amy did not reply. Did he mean between them or with his family?
‘Delina will run the house, for a while at least,’ he went on. ‘Hardly seems fair, does it, for her to be lumbered with looking after us when only months ago she was planning to start a home of her own?’
‘It’s odd how things work out sometimes,’ Amy said. ‘If Delina had married Maurice, things would have been very different.’
‘If she had, would you have offered to take us all on, Amy? Me and David and Daniel?’
Amy thought carefully before she spoke.
‘My first instinct was to do just that, Victor, even with Delina to help you. But now I think we both need time to adjust to the death of Imogine, don’t you?’ She watched him and felt a blow to her heart as a look of relief flickered across his face. She forced herself to go on. ‘Delina and the boys will need time too. If there’s anything I can do…’
‘Thanks, but I think they only need each other.’
‘And you, love.’
‘And me, for what use I am.’
‘Does Delina know that Maurice is coming home?’
‘Yes, Sheila took great delight in telling her.’
‘It’s been a stormy year, hasn’t it? Glad I’ll be when it’s over and the new year gives us all a fresh start.’
‘What about our fresh start?’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘What about you and that farmer?’
‘I won’t marry Billie. I told him that and apologised for keeping him on a string. Nice man, but I couldn’t marry someone I don’t love. I couldn’t see me wading through cow-pats to gather eggs for breakfast, either, can you?’
She was rewarded with a smile and for a moment the old Victor was back, but the smile faded and when she returned to him after serving Netta with some liquid shampoo and a box of Bel cheeses, he was preparing to leave.
‘Thanks for being so understanding, Amy.’ He lowered his head, unable to look at her.
‘Goodbye, Victor.’
‘Goodbye?’ He lifted his head then and stared at her, his pale-blue eyes full of alarm. ‘Not goodbye, for God’s sake! How can I get through these next weeks without knowing you’ll be there at the end of them? Amy, don’t let me down now.’
‘But I thought – I – this isn’t goodbye, then?’
‘No. Just a few weeks’ pause before we go forward again, together.’
He strode past her through the empty shop and slammed the door. He locked it and pulled down the blind then took her into his arms.
* * *
Nelly and George had been to the pictures in Llan Gwyn, and had continued on the bus as far as The Drovers for a drink. It was raining but the rain was soft, purring down rather than hissing, on the
hedges and the grass verge. They walked along, arm in arm, both wearing navy, rubber-backed coats. Nelly held up an umbrella, the cover of which had become detached from the frame, so it was half-moon shaped instead of round.
She found them a seat near The Drovers’ fire by the simple expedient of shaking her outsized coat. She pushed nearer to the blazing logs and looked hopefully at Phil, who was standing near the bar. Phil tilted his head questioningly.
‘What are you having, George?’ Nelly asked.
‘Don’t know that I need a drink. I’m that wet outside I might dissolve away,’ he laughed, his white beard revealing a clean pink mouth. ‘But I’ll force one to be sociable, Phil.’ He joined Phil at the bar.
There weren’t as many as usual in the pub. Gradually, people were buying television sets and staying at home to watch them.
‘Things is changin’ George, even ’ere in Hen Carw Parc,’ Nelly remarked sadly.
They did not stay long and, gathering their coats and umbrella to the discomfort of all, went out again into the night. They walked slowly, ignoring the steady rain, discussing the more interesting parts of the film they had seen. When they reached the bottom of Gypsy Lane, Nelly stopped.
‘George, I can smell smoke.’
‘Nelly, you can’t be surprised at that! Every house in the village will have a fire on a night like this!’
‘Bonfire smoke. Up there.’ She pointed into the blackness of the lane leading to Leighton’s farm. ‘I reckon the gypsies are back fer winter. Fancy that, winter ’as really arrived and we can stop worryin’ about anything except keepin’ warm and eatin’ plenty of suety puddin’s. And just think! We’ve got an indoor lav! No need to go into the woods through the ice an’ snow in the dark of night and the early mornin’s. We ’ave Mrs Norwood Bennet-’Ughes to thank fer that. We can sort of hibernate, can’t we? Stay ’ome, warm and comfortable, till the spring. Nice thought, ain’t it, George?’
‘Yes, Nelly, love. It’s a very nice thought.’
He put an arm across her shoulders and, singing ‘Show me the Way To Go Home’, they wandered on towards the cottage.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1990 by Headline Book Publishing
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © 1990 by Grace Thompson
The moral right of Grace Thompson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781911420170
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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The Changing Valley Page 44