He knew Nelly would not be in her cottage, she would still be working for Mrs French, but he made his way there and sat for a while watching the new pullets chortling and pecking at unseen scraps, which they quickly swallowed. They were still locked inside their run and he knew that unless he waited for Nelly to return, they had better stay that way.
Perhaps he could go and meet Nelly? Margaret would be there too and he could walk home with them. He stood up, unaware of the dirt which stained the back of his coat, his belt dragging on the ground, his hands covered with soil stains where he had rested them on Nelly’s garden as he sat watching the chickens. He strolled down the lane towards the main road and Mrs French’s house.
When he had almost reached it, he stopped. In the garden of a neighbouring house was a gypsy woman. She wore a headscarf and a patterned shawl, her skirt was dark and long, and her feet were bare in the black shoes, the skin brown and speckled with mud like his wellingtons. She was fatter than Clara, older than Clara’s granddaughter, and unknown to him. Over her arm was a large wicker basket filled with artificial flowers of every imaginable colour. Oliver thought they were beautiful. He stepped a bit closer, sheltered from the woman’s sight by a shrub growing in Mrs French’s garden.
The flowers were wooden. Somehow wooden twigs had been shaved down to make the shape of many petals. He would ask Nelly, she would know how they were made. And how they were coloured. Suddenly his foot slipped on the wet ground and a voice said ‘Hello, boy,’ and he turned to see Clara’s granddaughter watching him from the other side of the shrub. She winked a dark eye.
‘Want to buy a gift for your mother, do ’ee?’
‘I haven’t any money,’ Oliver stuttered, and ran through Mrs French’s gate, colouring in embarrassment as he heard the girl’s soft laughter. He knocked urgently on the back door.
Nelly opened it to him.
‘Ollie! Come to wait fer Margaret, ’ave yer? You’d better take off them boots. Come inside, Mrs French won’t mind you sittin’ ’til Margaret’s done.’
‘The gypsy girl is outside, Gran,’ he said as she helped him off with his boots.
‘Yes, sellin’ flowers an’ lucky heather and Gawd knows what, tryin’ to make a bit of cash to ’elp them through the winter.’
‘They’re pretty, those flowers. Gran, I think they’re made of wood!’
‘If we can escape yer mum one day, I’ll take you to see Clara and she’ll show you ’ow they make ’em. Like that would yer?’
‘Today would be a good day,’ he said hopefully. ‘Mother is busy with coffee.’
‘Busy with…? Oh, I sees what you means. ’Avin’ people round fer coffee. Sounds posh that does, although Mrs French does it all the time, what with ’er committees an’ all.’ She patted Oliver’s fair head. ‘Wants yer space more’n yer company, does she?’
Oliver grinned and nodded.
Through the closed door of the front room, a melody played on the piano reached them and Oliver sat listening contentedly while Nelly finished her chores. When the music stopped he felt a brief disappointment, but then the door opened and Margaret smiled in surprise at seeing him.
‘Got kicked out from under Evie’s feet, ’e did. I said you wouldn’t mind ’im waiting fer Margaret,’ Nelly shouted down the stairs.
‘Hello, Oliver,’ Mrs French smiled at him. ‘Did you enjoy the music?’
‘Oh yes,’ he coloured up and bent his head. ‘I thought it was lovely.’
When Oliver and Margaret left Mrs French’s, the gypsy girl was waiting for them.
‘Does your friend want some flowers for her mother?’ she asked Oliver, coming close to him and pushing a few of the stiff flowers towards him.
‘We haven’t any money.’
The girl stayed close, following them as they crossed the road to Amy’s shop and waiting with Oliver as Margaret went inside to deposit her music book and change into play clothes. They went without any set purpose to where Oliver lived. The girl still followed, her dark eyes darting about looking for a prospective customer for her flowers.
A large Rover car was parked outside Oliver’s house and his mother was standing at the gate to welcome the occupants: two rather large women in fur coats carrying outsized leather handbags. Oliver saw to his horror that Clara was coming out of the gate next to his. She saw him, waved and came towards him.
‘Oliver! Haven’t seen you for a while. Got fed up with us already? Not frightened of the dogs are you? They won’t harm you. Know you for a friend they do now you’ve visited us a few times.’
‘Wants a few flowers for his mother but he got no money,’ the girl said coming closer.
Oliver saw his mother’s face was wide eyed in embarrassment as her friends were surrounded by her filthy, mud-splattered son and the gypsies. Oliver looked around in horror as Clara approached him on one side and her granddaughter on the other. His mother’s friends blocked his escape in front.
He darted away from the girl and tried to get between Clara and the two women standing near the car. His mother ran towards him shouting, ‘Oliver! Get rid of these people at once!’
He called for Margaret to follow and ran to the fence, climbed over into the field and headed once again for the woods.
The two children sat among the trees and watched until Evie’s guests had departed, then they began to walk slowly back down the newly ploughed field. To take his mind off the lecture that awaited him, Oliver thought of the word he had tried to look for in his dictionary.
‘Margaret, what does a fluent, or something like that mean? It’s something to do with my Gran.’
‘Effluence means stuff going down a drain,’ she offered. She frowned in concentration. ‘I saw that on the side of a new cess pit being fitted up at Leighton’s farm when Mam took me to order potatoes. As it was a new word I wrote it in my book at school.’
‘It might have been that?’ Oliver said frowning as deeply. ‘But what is that to do with Gran?’
‘She’s not going down a drain!’
‘No, she’s too fat, she’d get stuck.’ Oliver laughed at the thought and the smile lasted until he reached home and saw Evie waiting for him at the door.
Chapter Four
Freddy had been into town to buy a few extra tools to work on the garden of their new house. He had ridden in on his bicycle, strapping the long handles of the hoe and rake to the crossbar and filling his saddlebag with the rest. He had just reached the first of the houses in the village when he saw a girl struggling with a heavy basket of groceries. He could see that she was about to cross the road to the car that was waiting for her on the other side.
He stopped, and parking the bicycle against a hedge, ran to help her. She was wearing a white swagger coat with a hood and it wasn’t until he reached her that she turned her face and he recognised her.
‘Hello. Sheila Powell isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Well, don’t stand there, take this basket, will you, if that’s what you’ve come for.’ Her voice was high-pitched and rather shrill, but her expression did not match it. She had a friendly, inviting look in her light blue eyes, which she widened in an exciting way.
Freddy took the basket from her and she walked in front of him towards the car.
‘Better put it in the boot,’ she said, ‘out of sight in case of thieves.’
‘Thieves? Around here?’ He grinned at her, his eyes large behind his glasses. ‘You’re not moving into the darkest pit of evil out here. Safer than town any day of the week, this village.’
‘I’m not from town. I live up in the council houses, with my Gran.’
‘I haven’t seen you.’
‘No, my parents don’t let me out much.’
A voice called, and they turned to see Mr and Mrs Powell approaching. They had obviously been to see his mother.
‘Come on, Sheila, get in the car, we haven’t got all day to gossip.’
‘But you’ve been waiting for them!’ Freddy said.
&
nbsp; ‘Strict, they are.’
‘But that’s unreasonable.’
Sheila bent down as if to tighten her shoe fastening and whispered, ‘Meet me lunchtime tomorrow in Tolly’s Park. All right?’
Freddy was so surprised he did not reply. The couple opened the door for Sheila with a barely noticeable nod to him, and then settled themselves into the seats. He watched the car move away, staring after it, stunned. He had a date with Sheila Powell. Well, that will be something to tell Maurice! He puzzled over ‘Tolly’s Park’. He couldn’t think where it was, but someone in town would know.
The following day he dressed in his best sports jacket and wore a pale green shirt and a matching tie. He caught the bus into Llan Gwyn and asked for directions to Tolly’s Park. He had lived in the area all his life but neither he, nor any of the people he asked, had heard of it. Time passed and he began to think he had been fooled. Thank goodness he hadn’t told Maurice about the date. Always best to keep things to yourself at first. Better than looking a twpsyn. He wandered back towards the bus stop for home.
The bus he caught was a slow one, cruising slowly through several of the small groups of houses almost too small to be called a village. It was when the bus was reversing into a narrow entrance to a car park before turning back to the main road that he saw her. When the driver called out, ‘Anyone for Tolly’s’ he leapt up and jumped off as the bus began to pick up speed.
Sheila was sitting on a bicycle, swinging one long, shapely leg, her skirt caught up in the saddle, her fair hair blowing lazily in the warm breeze. He looked at the inn sign, The Plough. Where did Tolly come in, he wondered?
‘Sheila, Sheila, sorry I’m late,’ he said, still puzzling about Tolly. ‘Got the wrong bus I did.’
‘What a shame. Now it’s too late, I’ve got to get back to work. I borrowed my friend’s bike specially too.’ She pressed her foot on the pedal and rode past him, her figure standing out as the wind pressed her thin dress against her. ‘Better luck next time. If there’s a next time!’ Her voice faded as she headed for town.
Freddy swore and looked about him for a notice telling him the time of the next bus. He’d probably have to wait for ages. There was no timetable and he walked to the door of the public house to ask. His eye was attracted to the notice above the entrance, ‘Proprietor Edwin Tolly’. So she had confused him deliberately, he thought with irritation.
‘Do they call this place Tolly’s?’ he asked a man who was about to enter.
‘Always. It’s been in the Tolly family for years, see. Never known as The Plough, except by strangers.’
Freddy began to walk into town. He walked fast, cutting across fields, reaching Llan Gwyn in about twenty minutes. He stopped to clean his shoes and wash his face in a stream before going to where the shops began. He hesitated then. What should he do? Walk past the shop where she worked and wait for her to see him, like a kid? Go into the shop and ask to speak to her? He decided to act like a kid and wait for her to look up and see him. Being made to look a fool once a day was enough!
He stood looking at the window display where coats and costumes in shades of green and brown were arrayed. Padding had been added to make them look more shapely – that’s something Sheila doesn’t need, he thought wryly. Some coats were on the floor of the window, stretched out on almost invisible threads. Others were displayed on faceless models. He examined them all, glancing into the shop occasionally for a sign of Sheila.
Time passed and his determination grew. He would wait until the shop closed if necessary. Once, he left the window to walk around to the back, making sure the shop didn’t have more than the two entrances he could see – one at the front for customers and the other, marked ‘Private, Staff Only’, at the side.
Customers came and went, but there was no sign of Sheila. Shadows moved inside but he couldn’t see clearly. The day was surprisingly warm and sunny and the reflection on the glass distorted his view. After almost two hours, the shop door opened and Sheila appeared carrying a large yellow duster. She did not speak to him, but began rubbing at a spot on the window. He moved a little closer, guessing she would be in trouble if her manageress saw her wasting time chatting.
When he was close enough to hear she said in a loud, hissing whisper, ‘Give you one more chance I will, Freddy Prichard. No more mind. I’ll try to get out tonight, at ten. Unless that’s too late for little boys like you?’
‘I’ll give you little boy! Where will you be?’
‘My house, number three Saint Illtyd’s Road. Don’t get the wrong bus now, I won’t believe you a second time.’ Giving the window a final rub, she moved away. He watched as she walked on ridiculously high heels through the double glass doors and as she pushed them closed he was rewarded with a dazzling smile and a wink that startled him.
* * *
‘I’m going for a bike ride, Mam,’ Freddy said as Amy finished settling Margaret into bed.
‘A bit late, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but it’s a fine night and I fancy a bit of air.’
‘I’ll leave you a sandwich if I go to bed before you get back, in case you’re hungry.’ She smiled at him. ‘Don’t get lost now will you?’
‘See you later.’ He hoped Amy hadn’t noticed that he had changed into a clean shirt and was wearing his best coat and grey trousers. She’d guess he was meeting a girl.
‘I hope you’ve cleaned your teeth,’ she shouted down the stairs after him and her chuckle reached him. She had guessed!
The house in which Sheila lived was not large. It was semi-detached and exactly like all its neighbours. The gardens each had a short hedge and a small patch of grass around which was a half-heartedly planted border. Freddy loved flowers and wondered why the tenants hadn’t made the small effort needed to make them colourful.
Auntie Prue’s garden was still full of colour. Roses still bloomed and the dahlias were as fresh as ever, as yet untouched by a frost. He let his mind wander to the weeding that would need to be done now, trying to distract himself from the possibility that Sheila had changed her mind, or confused him with the arrangements. He was certain that the lunchtime confusion was deliberate. Calling the car park of The Plough ‘Tolly’s Park’ was hardly a clear description. Well, if she wanted to tease, he was prepared to be patient. Perhaps she liked to test her boyfriends to see how determined they were.
He found a place close to the hedge and waited. Now he was here, looking up at the lighted and uncurtained window, he could no longer think of gardens. He glanced at the window, trying to seem casual at first in case he was being watched. But then he found he couldn’t take his eyes from it, and smiled at his own foolishness. Did he really expect Sheila to come sliding down a rope of knotted sheets?
Moving forward a few steps, he looked at the side of the house where a path separated it from its neighbour. Perhaps he should wait at the back? He went on the tip of his shoes down the side wall and came out in her back garden. There he waited.
Time passed. He had no idea how long he had stood there as he couldn’t see his watch in the darkness. Then, just as he was about to give up, he saw the back door slowly opening. He held his breath and tensed himself for flight. What if it was her father and he was spotted…? But it was a slim figure in a floating white dress. She peered around and came out into the now chilly garden.
‘Sheila,’ he whispered, ‘over here.’
The figure seemed to glide towards him and as he took her in his arms, he was shocked to find she had nothing on but the flimsy night-dress. ‘Sheila, we can’t go anywhere with you dressed like this.’
‘Just as far as the shed,’ she whispered, kissing him and pressing him close.
She took his hand and led him down past unseen bushes and trees. Opening the door of a small wooden shed, she pulled him inside. Her body was already cold to his touch and he took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulder.
‘If you can’t warm me without lending me a coat…’ she teased. She took his arms
and wrapped them around her and began kissing him. His hands began to move over her, his senses whirling about as the scent of her clouded his brain. A fleeting memory of his Auntie Prue glazed his mind, and then Sheila’s movements against him brought him deliciously back to the present.
‘Now, Freddy,’ Sheila whispered urgently and he began to loosen his clothing. Then, when he was about to completely relax into the heavenly sensations of love, she gasped, pushed him away and turned to the door.
‘I’ve got to go. It’s my dad, he’ll kill me.’ She pulled away and with a hurried, ‘Meet me Monday lunchtime at the shop,’ she ran back to the house, a ghostly figure in the darkness.
Freddy stood in the silence of the shed for a long time before accepting his disappointment and going home.
He was cycling back down Sheepy Lane when he saw Maurice. When he whistled a greeting, Maurice called for him to stop. Freddy didn’t want to talk to anyone, he wanted to get home and think about Sheila in her almost invisible night-dress and her kisses and the feel of her body against his. But Maurice insisted.
‘Been looking for you, Freddy. Want some work? Paid work?’
Freddy stopped, his foot on the ground, pushing slowly as Maurice reached him, to show his intention to hurry away. ‘What sort of work? I help Mam in the shop most days.’
‘Leighton’s farm. He wants a pond filled in. Something about disease prevention. What about helping?’
‘When?’
‘Soon as we like. Tomorrow?’
‘I’ve got something on in the evening,’ Freddy lied.
‘A girl? Is that why you’re out so late?’
‘Yeh.’
‘Who is it then?’
‘Sheila Powell.’
‘A bit old for you, boy, you being only fifteen.’
‘Nearly sixteen, and no, I don’t think so and neither does she.’
‘I bet she doesn’t know you’re only fifteen.’
‘That’s as may be, but I’m seeing her tomorrow night so apart from that you can count me in, right?’ Freddy pushed hard on the pedal and left Maurice behind. ‘Call for me. okay?’ He didn’t want to discuss Sheila with anyone, especially not Maurice Davies.
Valley Affairs Page 7