Valley in Bloom

by Valley in Bloom (retail) (epub)

  ‘Surely you aren’t peeling potatoes in this weather?’ Sheila went into the cemented yard. The ground was wet, wetter than outside the yard and Bethan pointed to the buckets of chips soaking in water.

  ‘I won’t have time in the morning, what with everything else I have to do, I thought I’d get ahead of myself.’

  Sheila looked with disapproval at the sacks of potatoes, the pans in which batter was mixed and at the cold water that spilled into the buckets and over-flowed down the yard to the drain. How could anyone do this work day after day?

  ‘You don’t do all of this yourself?’ she asked.

  ‘Now I do. Since Griff has been arrested and Hilda has felt too distressed to come to work.’ She touched her eyes with a knot of a handkerchief and asked, ‘Are you going anywhere special? Fancy a cup of tea?’

  ‘Make it coffee and it’s Yes,’ Sheila said, ‘tea is so unsophisticated, don’t you think?’

  * * *

  Bethan lead the way past the shed-cum-workroom and into a small snug living room where a fire glowed and music played. The Sunday Dispatch was spread across a low table, open at the serialisation of Winston Churchill’s novel, Savrola. Sheila picked it up as if idly reading it while Bethan went to a corner and set the kettle to boil on the single burner gas jet. She wasn’t reading but using the newspaper as a shield to look around the room, taking in the pleasant and comfortable chairs and the couch, the small table and two chairs in one corner, and the geometric design curtains in blue, red and brown that separated off a bed and a small cupboard. She realised that Bethan lived here in a bed-sit while her son, Arthur, lived in the flat similar to her own parents’ above the shop.

  What luck, she thought, privacy and independence. But not worth ruining your hands washing potatoes for, she added with a disapproving curl of her lips. She looked at her own hands, already marked with cleaning out the ashes of her grandmother’s fire every day, scrubbing the kitchen floor and front door-step and soaking for several hours each week while she did the weekly washing. Those things were necessary and quite enough without adding a daily dose of cold water and filthy potatoes! She shuddered at the thought.

  Bethan put a saucepan of milk to boil and juggled with kettle and milk on the single jet until satisfied they were both hot enough. She poured milk and water into the cups on top of the coffee powder and finally handed a cup to Sheila.

  ‘Where were you going?’ Bethan asked.

  ‘Nowhere in particular. I was a bit bored, fed up with my own company, so I came out for a walk. I ducked down the lane to avoid that old Nelly Luke and the tramp,’ she said unkindly. ‘Proper gossip she is and wants to know everything I do.’

  ‘I wish she’d come and help with the yard work,’ Bethan sighed. ‘I don’t know how I’ll manage now Griff doesn’t come and Hilda is ill.’

  ‘Ill?’ Sheila laughed. She showed her teeth in a smile brightened by special toothpaste which reddened the gums as she added, ‘Ill you say? Not when I last saw her! Off on the town she is and her dressed up like a twenty-year-old what’s more! Spending money like she’s won the pools, according to my mother. New clothes, new hair-do, lipstick so bright you’d want to post letters in her mouth.’

  Bethan looked puzzled. She frowned and stared at her visitor. ‘Sorry, I think we’re talking on crossed lines. I’m talking about Hilda Evans, Griff’s wife.’

  ‘And so,’ Sheila said with emphasis, ‘am I.’ She put down the cup of coffee on which a skin had formed and said sweetly, ‘Think she’s found out about you and Griff then, do you?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ For a moment Bethan straightened her back and began to protest, but then she drooped again, took out her sodden handkerchief and nodded. ‘I suppose it’s common knowledge?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that, but my mother works in Amy’s shop and what they don’t know between them isn’t worth bothering your head about!’

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Advertise. There must be plenty of people willing to work for a few hours each morning, that’s all you need, isn’t it? Pity that Arthur of yours isn’t a bit older, or your dad a bit younger.’

  ‘Dad would help but Mam won’t let him. She says it’s bad enough having a daughter in the fish trade without dragging Dad in, too.’

  ‘Something special was he, your dad?’

  ‘He worked in an office and to Mam that’s second only to a profession like doctor or school teacher!’ She sipped her coffee again then added in a low, disheartened voice, ‘What will I do?’

  ‘Get a couple of postcards. I’ll get one put in Amy’s window and another one on the notice board in the church hall. Plenty of people will see them and I bet you’ll have a job chosing from all the applicants!’

  ‘Thanks, Sheila, I feel better already.’ ‘Another thing. On your day off we’ll go to the pictures and have a cup of coffee and a Kunzel cake.’

  ‘I don’t open on Tuesday.’

  ‘Meet me from work then. Now, I have to go, must get my beauty sleep.’

  Sheila walked home and began to regret the impulse that had made her invite Bethan out for an evening. Bethan was years older, with a nine-year-old son and a lover who was at least forty-five. Bethan herself had to be thirty, almost the next generation! But still, she consoled herself, the pictures meant little time to chat and she could always make an excuse if another meeting was suggested.

  * * *

  In fact, she enjoyed the evening out more than she had imagined. Bethan, once out of the white overall in which she seemed to live most of her life, was a light-hearted companion and more daring when it came to smiling at young men than Sheila herself.

  The difference between the two young women was in their experiences and up-bringing, not their ages. Bethan, she discovered, was only twenty-six, just four years her senior, but her manner and attitudes were much older. Sheila’s influence would soon change those things and persuade Bethan that there was fun to be had in the wider world, outside Hen Carw Parc and its boring, dull inhabitants.

  Between flirting with people in the cinema queue and in the pub where they boldly went for a shandy, and sharing their previous experiences and disappointments, they came to the conclusion that men were best taken in large numbers, not as solitary, inhibiting custodians.

  After having their drinks and crisps paid for by two boys from the forestry that they had seen once or twice with Griff they caught the bus laughing and recounting the evening’s adventures like school children after a party.

  Bethan said goodbye and with a last giggling reminiscence went down the dark lane to her single room. Sheila walked up Sheepy Lane and on the way up Hywel Rise heading for St Illtyd’s Road saw Delina stepping out of Tad Simmons’s doorway. She hurried a moment, unable to resist an unkind remark to the girl who she thought had stolen Maurice from her.

  ‘Courting again, are you?’ she called, and smiled as Delina turned away and hurried back up the hill without replying.

  * * *

  Delina felt annoyed with Sheila for seeing her and for making a remark that touched a weak spot in her armour. Since her cancelled wedding to Maurice Davies she had determined to avoid any involvement, but lately she had found excuses to visit Tad under the pretence that Dawn was the reason. She was having to admit to herself that although she had taken part responsibility for the daughter, she felt a growing interest in the father. What a pity that when Maurice emigrated he hadn’t taken Sheila with him.

  Tonight she had called with a book which she had found while sorting out some of the cupboards that her mother had filled with memorabilia, and which Delina was gradually discarding. She had stayed to read a story to Dawn after the little girl had been put to bed by Tad, and when she had come down Tad had made coffee and a sandwich. On the previous Sunday, she remembered with some embarrassment, it had been a book on photography and a film for Dawn’s camera. The Sunday before that a trifle for Dawn’s supper. She had made one each for her brothers and her father, and
when Victor failed to come in for tea she had carried the trifle in the glass dish down the road for Dawn.

  On the Sunday before that, Tad and Dawn had called and invited her to go with them for a walk across the fields towards Billie Brown’s farm. Sundays had become a special day, one to which she looked forward with growing pleasure. Now, Sheila shouting about her courting had spoilt it. She hurried up the hill and into her house wearing a frown that sat on her face like a beacon to warn her brothers not to argue.

  Of her brothers Daniel was the least difficult, facing his mother’s death with quiet acceptance. Almost eighteen, he knew where he was going in the world, his plans mapped out in front of him although he kept most of them to himself. He was tall and fair like his sister and had her serenity, and like her he kept his emotions in check and hadn’t shed a tear over the loss of his mother.

  David was far more of a problem and neither Delina nor her father could persuade him to talk about how he felt. Whatever was suggested to him he disagreed. Pain or pleasures, he turned them all down and refused to co-operate. Now, Delina saw with a sigh, his shoes were uncleaned, and she could see one of his football boots still lying near the back door having been half-washed, then left for her to see to.

  Today, she thought with rising irritation, today I won’t. He will have to wear them as they are and face his teacher’s disapproval. Then she sighed. It was only a month since the funeral. The teacher would only hear him complain that his sister forgot. Sympathy for a boy who had lost his mother was something David was enjoying and something he would feed on for a long time.

  The other boot was missing and when David came in she asked where it was.

  ‘In the shed,’ the boy said in his surly way.

  ‘What’s it doing there?’

  ‘I threw it there.’

  ‘Why?’

  David left the room, slamming the door behind him and Delina picked up the torch and went to find the boots and clean them.

  Perhaps that was why she was glad to visit Tad? Because it meant getting away from the situation of being unwilling mother to her brothers. In the sparsely furnished, uncomfortable house on Hywel Rise, she could pretend for a while that she wasn’t becoming a drudge to her family. As soon as she stepped once more into her own home she felt the jaws of the trap closing.

  The boot was in the shed. It had been thrown through a window to get there. She snapped off the torch and left the boot where it lay, among the shattered glass. She would leave a note for her father. This was something he must deal with, whatever time he came back from Amy’s. Taking the daily papers with her, she went to bed.

  * * *

  Saturday morning was one of the times Nelly worked for Mrs French. She usually took the dogs with her and tied them up in the yard until she had finished, knowing they were much happier being with her than shut in on their own at home. November was on the way out and Mrs French had gone into Llan Gwyn to do some of the extra shopping that the approach of Christmas always entailed.

  Nelly locked the door and pocketed the key as Mrs French had asked. Nelly and George would bring it down later when Mrs French returned. Since the burglaries of the previous summer people were more careful about locking doors and no longer hid keys under stones or behind the door on a string. Constable Harris’s warnings on keeping keys safe from watching eyes had been heeded. Even though Griff Evans had confessed to the burglaries and house-breaking, the fear had remained.

  The dogs began to bark before she had made sure the door was safe and she called to them to hush their row.

  ‘It’s me, Nelly,’ a young voice called and she opened the gate to see Dawn waiting for her.

  ‘’Ello, young Dawn. What you doin’ ’angin’ about down ’ere?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ Dawn replied. She held up her camera given to her by Nelly and with which she had won a few small prizes. ‘Will you take me to see the gypsies? I want to take some photographs if they’ll let me. D’you think they will?’

  ‘O’ course they will, friends of mine they are. But I ain’t goin’ wanderin’ up the lane now. I got to get ’ome to get me dinner cookin’. Come an’ ’elp why don’t yer?’ Nelly looked suspiciously at the camera, wondering where the girl had found the money for the film. As if reading her thoughts, Dawn said brightly: ‘Delina gave me the film. She brought it down a couple of Sundays ago, with a book of photography.’

  ‘She’s very kind to you, better’n you deserve sometimes,’ Nelly chuckled.

  ‘Oh, I know why she’s nice to me. It’s because she soft on my Dad,’ Dawn replied airily. ‘I’ve talked it over with the girls in school.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t. ’Er bein’ a teacher she mustn’t be made to look silly, or you and yer Dad’ll be without ’er friendship, an’ you’d miss ’er, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Nelly, I won’t talk about her and Dad again,’ Dawn said in the submissive way that didn’t fool Nelly for a moment.

  When they reached the cottage gate Nelly looked in surprise at the open back door. Although she had never succumbed to the anxiety that made everyone lock their doors, she usually pulled it shut and now it was standing wide and the chickens, freed from the run, were wandering in and out of the door.

  ‘Someone’s been here,’ she said to Dawn. ‘If that Phil’s been in to make a cup of tea and forgotten to shut the door I’ll – Oliver!’ Her face creased into a welcoming smile as she recognised her grandson. ‘Let the chickens out for me I see!’

  ‘Yes, Gran, and I’ve pushed the kettle a bit closer to the fire for your cuppa.’

  ‘Blimey, don’t let your mother ’ear you sayin’ cuppa or she’ll stop you comin’ again!’

  ‘Mum and Dad have gone shopping and I’m here for you to look after me. I said you wouldn’t mind.’

  He spoke in a formal way that seemed odd on such a small boy. He was very small for his age and thin. His hair was thin too; fair and straight and inclined to stick up. He patted the dogs that bounded to greet him as he walked up the cinder path to meet them.

  As soon as he had appeared in the doorway Dawn waved and clung on to Nelly’s arm possessively.

  ‘Me and Nelly’s going out later, to see the gypsies,’ she said, hoping it would be after his parents had come to claim him back.

  ‘Good, I’ll be able to come too,’ he said, his face lighting up. ‘Mother isn’t here so we can’t ask and be refused, can we, Gran?’

  ‘You’re gettin’ as devious as the rest of us, Ollie, in spite of all yer mum’s efforts!’ Nelly laughed. ‘Come on, then, let’s get the dinner on it’s way, an’ ’ow about a cup of cocoa and a sandwich then? Brawn suit yer?’ Both children pulled a face as Nelly knew they would. ‘All right, a bit of cheese and a bag of crisps between us,’ she said with a loud laugh.

  It was raining as they set off an hour later and Dawn and Oliver were sheltered under an old mac that belonged to George. They each put an arm down a sleeve that was far too long and laughed as they skipped along beside Nelly and the two dogs. Down to the main road they went and then right to where another lane led off towards Leighton’s farm. After a while the hedges became set further back from the lane and a grass verge widened, and when they turned a corner, they came upon the caravans and the paraphernalia of the gypsies camp site.

  There were three caravans settled for the winter, each with its small collection of belongings gathered around the steps. They were all painted green but each had been decorated with beautiful designs so they were all different. The flowers and scrolls touched with edgings of gold seemed as if they had grown there, climbing around the immaculate woodwork that had been carved by hand. The wheels and the framework of the caravans and the intricately etched glass inside the small orderly homes were a constant source of fascination to Nelly.

  There was a large iron pot on the grass nearby, out of which Nelly had eaten many a savoury meal, and there was a pile of wood covered with a tarpaulin besides which stood a large, shining axe and a b
ow saw. Nearer the steps of the first caravan was a kennel, a large dog tied to its entrance. He was a lurcher, a breed that was popular with gypsies, and poachers too. It stood at the furthest stretch of its lead and growled disapproval of the intruders.

  ‘Seems like Clara and the others are out,’ Nelly said. ‘Still, this ain’t the weather fer taking photographs, is it?’

  ‘It’ll be dry by evening,’ a voice said and Clara stepped out on to the veranda at the top of her steps. She leaned over the sill and smiled a greeting to them all. ‘Come in and welcome, dogs and all,’ she said, and she kissed Nelly as they all climbed up the gaily painted steps and went inside the neat caravan.

  Dawn and Oliver had seen Clara before. The gypsy woman was a regular winter visitor to the village, her people having camped in Gypsy Lane for longer than even Grandad Owen could remember, and he was over ninety. But the children were still nervous of the unusual woman, who wore black skirts and tops covered with beautifully embroidered shawls and scarves, and wore gold on her fingers and gold in her teeth, and whose hair was as black as night, coiled in intricate plaits around her small, slightly wizened face. They each fought to sit beside Nelly and away from their hostess. Clara saw and shared a look of amusement with Nelly.

  ‘So this is your scholar of a grandson, grown hasn’t he?’

  ‘I’m no scholar,’ Oliver said, gradually beginning to feel at ease in the fascinating home. ‘I don’t do well in school and that’s being a scholar, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not yet, but as sure as the rain will stop before evening, you’ll be a man people will look up to one day.’ Oliver looked at Nelly who winked and nodded her head.

  They drank tea which tasted strange at first but which neither Dawn nor Oliver refused to drink for fear of teasing by the other. Then, while the two women talked, Dawn and Oliver studied the caravan and its foreign-looking contents; the china and brass that seemed only for show; the decorated doors which hid the necessities of life for people always on the move.