Finding no excuse to stay, Nelly walked up the lane to the cottage and began the routine tasks of attending to the fire and swivelling the kettle over the heat. She began to prepare a snack, but then she sat down and allowed the tea to go cold and thought about the Christmas to come. After a while she forced herself to shake off her melancholy and brought in the tree Phil had brought for her.
‘No sense in bein’ miserable, boys,’ she said to the dogs. ‘Christmas is a celebration whatever me circumstances.’
She had no sparkling tinsel and no coloured balls for the tree but blew up a few balloons and tied them on. A couple of lengths of expanding garlands intended to loop from the ceiling were draped over its branches. The four Christmas cards she had so far received hung among the greenery and on top, having no fairy in a white dress and carrying a silver wand, she fixed a picture of the Queen. It was an unusual tree but certainly cheerful.
‘If only George was ’ere to see it.’
* * *
Oliver was disappointed to hear that George had gone. He had made a small purse from red felt, and had bought two tuppeny-ha’penny stamps to go inside it. He hoped the present would result in his receiving a letter from George, delivered by Phil Davies. Now it was too late. Why hadn’t he stayed?
He had been at the shop talking to Margaret and when he got home, he went quietly through the kitchen and into the hall. He didn’t call, knowing that if he did Evie would tell him to take off his shoes, change his trousers and shirt and do his reading practice. He sidled past the door to the lounge where he could hear his parents talking. Hearing the word ‘secretly’ he grinned and crept closer. Perhaps he would hear what was to be his Christmas present.
In fact, Evie and Timothy were discussing something much less exciting: the school funds. The school garden was a mess and some of the parents had planned to run a stall to sell home-made toys to raise money for new plants for it. Mr Evans had volunteered to make the arrangements but he had let them down.
The posters had been printed with the wrong date, he had forgotten to borrow the trestle tables from the church, and when the sale did take place, so few people came that the toys were mostly unsold. He had handed his accounts of the disaster to Timothy on the last day of term, and they made grim reading.
While Oliver listened hopefully outside the door his parents let their disappointment overflow into unreasonable anger. Evie, who could rarely be moderate about anything, at once condemned the man as an idiot.
‘He is unreliable and none too bright, we both know it. He can hardly add two and two. He has cost us money we can ill afford and I wish we could get rid of him!’
Timothy’s voice was lower, quieter, but he too was disappointed that all the efforts of the ladies’ sewing circle had been wasted.
‘There are times, dear, when I agree with you. But we can’t just tell him to go. Much as we would sometimes wish to.’ He pointed at the accounts with his pen. ‘These totals are all wrong. It will take me hours to sort out the errors.’
Oliver did not cry. He went up the stairs and into his room, a determined and grim look on his young face. Packing a bag with a few clothes and stopping only to collect his wellingtons from the kitchen, he left the house and walked up the field to the woods beyond.
He was not certain of the way to the brickworks although Gran had pointed out the general direction in the past. But surely there would be a path and a signpost? He looked at the piece of paper in his hand and, spelling out the letters said the words aloud: The Cymer – the area in which he knew he’d find the brickworks and George. If he couldn’t see a signpost he would be able to ask. He walked on confidently.
It seemed that the day had hardly become light before it began to darken again. Shadows already filled the lane and the chill of approaching night seeped through his clothes. He was frequently tempted to turn around but he was determined to find George and then both of them would go and live with Gran. She wanted him and she never called him stupid. Once he had explained to George how much he and Nelly needed him to stay, he would never go away again.
He thought he knew all about survival in the country, hadn’t the gypsy girl told him how it was done? He looked at the bare branches and the few remaining berries, already difficult to see in the fading light. He had left the lane now and walked through a hillside almost bare of trees, just the occasional hawthorn dressed for winter, and a more graceful rowan here and there. Streams abounded, running silver through the ground, and he stopped once to drink, not because he was thirsty but to pretend he was able to find all he would need, playing at surviving in the wild. Water? All around me, he told himself. Food? There on the branches to be picked when I need it. But the dark was something harder to pretend about. It crept around him threateningly, hiding all that was familiar, and making him doubt which way to walk.
George had often talked to him about living rough, as he called it. The most important thing, he had said, was to find yourself a warm place to sleep. As soon as it was past midday, you must settle for the first likely spot you found and not be tempted to walk on in the hope of something better. Settle in it before you get cold so you’ll be warm for the night hours. Settle and try and sleep in a cold place, when you haven’t any body warmth, and you’re in trouble.
He looked about him at the trees and the long grasses and began to feel afraid. He had passed the old castle long ago and where he now walked was new to him. He was far to the east of the council houses and no lights were visible in any direction to help him find his route. Where would he find a warm place to sleep?
* * *
Timothy walked to the school and finding it empty and locked, went to see the Reverend Barclay Bevan, who had been rehearsing the children in their carols. He looked surprised when Timothy asked about Oliver.
‘I saw them off hours ago. About two o’clock, I believe. No, I didn’t see who he went with, but it was probably Margaret Prichard. Come in and I’ll telephone for you, to save time. So dark today it’s almost like evening already.’
There was no reply.
‘Of course, they would be at the shop,’ Barclay Bevan smiled. ‘With school finished for Christmas, Margaret would be there with her mother.’ He dialled another number and was told that Margaret had not seen him since about an hour after the concert rehearsal ended.
Timothy thanked the man and hurried home. He rang everyone he could think of. No one had seen him. Evie called on Nelly, who set off at once to the castle, in case he had wandered up for a solitary game among the ruins, but she couldn’t find him there.
* * *
Oliver was frightened and unsure which way to go. He would happily return home now but had no idea of the direction he had travelled. He saw a house and, although there were no lights in the windows, he knocked on the door to ask for help. But the place was empty.
The darkness was so intense now that he could barely make out the outline of the building, but he came upon a shed, its door drunkenly open across the broken concrete path. It was obviously a coal house, the smell was easily recognised. He thought of going in and trying to get himself warm but his hand touched a cobweb and he ran off in a fright.
He found the brickworks by sheer luck. He walked around the buildings, touching the walls, feeling for a space where he could shelter. He found a curve in the wall that was slightly warm to his fingers and snuggled against it, pulling his short coat around him and trying to cover his cold, thin legs.
Then he began to cry, silently at first, trying to hold back the misery and fear. But his tears increased as shapes in the darkness began to look like figures looming towards him, encroaching ominously on the space between himself and them. The old walls became giants and fearsome animals, and the night was full of terrors.
He shut his eyes tight and let out a wail that cut the silence of the bleak and lonely place. The sound of his own voice frightened him but he couldn’t stop. Then he heard the sound of a twig snapping and he opened his eyes. He could just ma
ke out a figure moving towards him. His throat tightened and he gave a half-strangled cry. Then a voice he knew said softly, ‘Oliver, don’t be frightened, it’s me, George. I’ve come to take you home.’
Oliver could not speak. Each time he tried to explain the words exploded into deep, shuddering sobs that shook his small body.
‘Don’t try to talk, I’ll hear all about it later. Just cwtch up in my jacket and get warm.’
The boy’s sobs gradually subsided into a few deep sighs and he was able to say, ‘I’ve been looking for you, George. Nelly and I want you to stay and I want to live with you both in Gran’s cottage.’
‘I would love that too, Oliver. There’s nothing I would like more, but I don’t belong with Nelly, I can’t walk into her life and spoil things for her. And as for you, you belong with your parents. They would be broken-hearted if they knew you wanted to leave them.’
‘No, Mother wouldn’t mind, I’ve heard her say so. Can we all stay together, George? Can we?’
‘Let’s get you home, shall we? I bet your mother is frantic with worry. She cares for you, in spite of what you think she said.’
George cuddled the boy tightly, distressed by the sobbing which even now occasionally wracked Oliver’s small frame. He carried him home, covering the long miles rapidly with his keen eyes and his knowledge of the land. The sobs subsided, and he knew the boy slept. He walked quickly, anger against the boy’s mother in every step.
* * *
Everyone in the village seemed to be out searching for Oliver. As George approached the first houses, every window showed a light. That was Constable Harris’s idea, thinking that if the boy was anywhere near, he would be glad of a light to show him the way home.
It was past midnight, yet torches flickered in the blackness as searchers walked the hedgerows and peered into corners, calling his name, and calling to each other to stay in contact. Some were singing, the clear voices on the night air giving the impression of a scene from an opera in which the cast had lost their way and left the stage.
George walked down the field behind Evie’s house and up to the open door and called out. Evie gave a scream and snatched the boy from George’s arms.
‘What have you done to him?’ She moved the boy’s head to wake him. ‘Oliver, what has he done to you? Tell me.’ She put the boy down and called Timothy.
Nelly, who had been waiting with her daughter for news, saw the horrified look on George’s face and pushed her daughter with a roughness that surprised them both. George caught hold of Oliver, who was still sleepy and unable to stand.
‘Shut your ugly mouth!’ Nelly growled. ‘Hug the boy, let him know you love him and are thankful ’e’s safe back ’ome.’
Evie burst into tears and Timothy comforted her.
‘That’s enough, Mother-in-law.’
‘No, it ain’t enough! Call yerself a mother?’ She glared at her daughter, forcing her to look her in the eye. ‘Go on! Take ’im from George who found ’im and brought ’im safe back for yer.’
Nelly watched as Evie gently lifted the boy from George’s arms and heard her say, ‘Thank you very much,’ in a low trembling whisper. She saw her daughter’s shoulders shaking as she walked upstairs carrying Oliver, with Timothy following close behind her.
They quickly sent out messages to let everyone know that Oliver had been found and the house emptied. Along the main street small groups were still gathered and it was a long time before the last light went out and the village settled to sleep for what was left of the night.
* * *
Oliver had been undressed and bathed to warm him before being put into his pyjamas. Both Evie and Timothy attended to him, each unwilling to leave it to the other.
‘Oliver,’ Evie said, holding her son tightly, ‘my dear, we’ve been so frightened. Where have you been? Why did you go so far on your own? Didn’t you know how it would worry us, you disappearing like that, out alone in the dark? We love you so much.’
‘I wanted to find George. I want to live with Gran and George. I know I’m an expense and a disappointment.’
‘Oliver! What makes you think such a foolish thing? A disappointment?’ Evie allowed her husband to speak, she was too filled with guilt to sound convincing. What had she done to the child?
Between them they gradually unravelled the reasons for his running away, and when they felt certain he had been reassured, they put him to bed, in their bed and, one each side of him, cuddled him for the rest of the night. Neither of them slept.
* * *
In the cottage at the edge of the wood, George sat on Nelly’s couch and told her how he had found Oliver.
‘I heard footsteps and presumed it was another traveller, then I heard him crying. I called, hoping he would recognise my voice and not be frightened by my approach. He was so cold.’
They sat discussing the events of the night and Nelly’s hopes that it might put some sense into Evie’s head. At last George fell asleep where he sat and Nelly threw a blanket over him. She smiled down at the whiskered face and sighed in delight. It was a funny world, trouble bringing joy. She hummed a carol as she climbed the stairs to bed.
Chapter Ten
George had never been upstairs in Nelly’s house, but the morning following the search for Oliver he rose early, revived the fire and took a cup of tea up the curved staircase into her bedroom. She sat up in her voluminous night-dress and pulled the greatcoat which served as a bedspread around her shoulders.
‘Thanks, George.’ She took the cup and saucer and drank gratefully.
George sat on a wicker chair near the window and said quietly. ‘I wonder if Evie will let me in, if I call to see how young Oliver is?’
‘Never no sayin’ with my Evie. I hope she’s showin’ a bit of love to that boy. That’s more important than what she thinks of you an’ me, George.’
‘My name is Henry,’ he said with a smile, ‘although I might not answer to it after you calling me George for so long.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. I was thinking of how you suddenly made up the name when Evie challenged you and you didn’t know my real name. I’m happy to be a George.’
‘I forgets my name too, you know. I still calls meself Nelly Luke an’ really I’m Mrs Henry Masters.’ She frowned, her face crinkling and making him smile, then she added, ‘No, sorry, George, but I can’t think of you as a ’Enry and George it’ll ’ave to be.’
‘More tea?’ He held his hand out for the cup.
‘It’s Christmas Eve, George, I’ve just realised.’ Ignoring his outstretched hand, she put the cup on the table near the battered alarm clock. ‘It’s a bit late for you to go, ain’t it?’
‘If you don’t mind, perhaps I will stay a while longer.’
‘Smashin!’ She pushed the blankets from her and climbed out of the large bed, stretching inelegantly and reaching for the great coat. ‘I’ll go an’ see if Amy’s still got the chicken I ordered. Cancelled it I did, when you said you were goin’.’
‘Not dressed like that I hope?’ he laughed. He collected the cup and started to leave the room. ‘Nelly, is there another bedroom?’
‘’Ardly a bedroom. It’s full of all sorts of junk. We could clean it up though, if…’ She hesitated, afraid to be thought in any way pressuring him. ‘If you fancy a job,’ she finished. ‘But first,’ she said casually, ‘I think I’d better go an’ see Amy an’ order the extra grub.’
George felt in his pocket and handed her two pounds. ‘Take this towards it,’ he said.
‘Ta, George. Fancy a chicken fer Christmas day? That’s if you’re stayin’.’ There, it was out. She watched his face for a clue to his feelings and was relieved when he smiled.
‘Thank you, Nelly. If you’ll have me, I would be very pleased to spend Christmas here.’
‘Thank Gawd fer that. Spoilt my Christmas proper it would, imaginin’ you sleepin’ rough. We’ll empty the junk room for yer.’
They spent the af
ternoon clearing the clutter out of the back bedroom. There was no bed. The one she had had for Evie years before had ended up on a bonfire. Its metal frame was still faintly visible in the garden, under the dead tendrils of convolvulus that covered it each summer. She would look out for a second-hand one.
There were boxes containing clothes and books and magazines. Mice had nested in some of them and, as the boxes were lifted, a litter of shredded paper and cloth covered the floor.
‘Seems we’ll ’ave to ’ave another bonfire night, George,’ Nelly laughed.
‘We’ll invite Oliver and his friends and make a party of it, shall we?’
In a box that had been hidden by a pile of old coats, Nelly found a set of teacups, saucers and plates. They were made of beautiful fine china and decorated in blue and dark red flowers. Nelly washed them with great care and decided to give them to Amy.
‘Look good in ’er new ’ouse, they will. An’ we’re ’appy with the old stuff, ain’t we George?’
There was nothing else of value and soon there was a large mound in the garden waiting to be set alight. They had just arranged the tea-set on the table, ready to pack and take to Amy, when Phil the postman appeared at the door.
‘What’s this then, expecting that Bennet-Hughes woman again?’ he asked.
They stopped work and opened the cards he had brought, exclaiming over some unexpected ones. They stuck them on the over-loaded Christmas tree in the corner, much to Phil’s amusement.
‘That’s the most unusual tree I’ve seen this Christmas,’ he said. ‘Everything on it except the envelopes the cards came in!’
Valley Affairs Page 20