The emerald valley, p.15
The Emerald Valley, page 15
I should be able to forget myself for a little while in sheer hard work, she thought, remembering how Mam at times of stress had been prone to taking down every curtain in the house and washing them with almost frightening thoroughness. But grief had not taken her that way. Instead she felt weak and useless and everything she did, she did in a dream.
Now, before the iron could go cold on her, she laid a pillow-case out on the ironing blanket and flicked cold water onto it from the bowl that stood at her elbow. This hot weather was all very well, but it did make the washing dry so rock-hard if you forgot to bring it in from the line in time. And this week, remembering washing was right at the end of Amy’s list of priorities.
She had just finished the pillow-case when the front doorbell rang, making her sigh wearily. Who could it be this time? Someone who had noticed she was missing from the fete and had come to see if she was all right? Oh, why couldn’t they understand she just wanted to be left alone!
She went along the cool dim hall, kicking the carpet ‘runner’ into place as she went, and drew the bolts on the front door. Then her lips parted in a small ‘Oh!’ of surprise.
Standing on the doorstep, his tall frame almost blotting out the sun, was Ralph Porter. As a concession to the warm afternoon, he had exchanged his leather jacket for an open-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled back half-way to the elbows, but he was still wearing the flying boots and glancing past him Amy saw the bright red of the Morgan drawn up at the gate.
For a moment, grief forgotten, Amy felt nothing but the same acute embarrassment she had experienced on the afternoon she had run into him with the lorry. It might have happened across the great divide, in another lifetime, but the emotion she felt now was just the same, pure and unadulterated – the shame of a wilful child who has caused some catastrophe through disobedience.
Then the memory of their sharp disagreement joined the others and she drew herself up.
‘Yes?’ she said shortly.
‘Mrs Roberts.’ Those dark eyes were disconcerting in their directness. He was not angry now, yet he still conveyed the impression of power – and something else. Yes. Arrogance. That was it. He stood there on her doorstep and somehow managed to look as if he and not she were the owner.
‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘What can I do for you?’
One eyebrow lifted in an expression of sardonic surprise.
‘I would hardly have thought you needed to ask that. I’ve been expecting to hear from you.’
‘You’ve been expecting …’ She had begun to tremble, but she stared at him in disbelief. Surely he could not be referring to the accident? Surely not even he would come here knocking on her door to ask about repairs to a motor car with her husband not buried a week?
‘That’s right. You caused considerable damage, which is going to cost in the region of £20 to repair. Your husband contacted me shortly after the incident and promised to put things right, but that’s several weeks ago now and nothing has been done.’ His tone was hard, totally emotionless and she gasped.
‘Well, of course it hasn’t!’
The eyebrow lifted a fraction once again.
‘Really? Then it’s as well I’m here, isn’t it? I ought to warn you, Mrs Roberts, I could very well have put the matter in the hands of my solicitor, but initially I thought I would deal with it myself and save us both legal costs. Of course, if you’re going to prove difficult …’
‘How could you?’ she cried. ‘How can you be so callous?’
A muscle moved fractionally in his cheek above the dark moustache.
‘I’m sorry you see it that way, Mrs Roberts. I hardly see how you can expect to go haring around causing damage to other people’s vehicles and not paying for it, no matter what your financial position. And I’m afraid that, insured or not, I intend to have you reimburse me. I would have preferred to discuss the matter with your husband, but …’
‘Oh, would you indeed?’ she flared. ‘I doubt that. You think you can bully me, I dare say. Well, it’s no more than I would have expected. Llew always said what you were. It’s just that I would never have believed that anyone …’
‘I’m a businessman, Mrs Roberts. Sympathy is not an emotion in which I can afford to indulge. If you want to make a success of your business, you would do well to remember that and do the same.’
Her knuckles were white as she gripped the door frame for support, but for the moment her anger and sense of outrage were stifling all other emotions.
‘I will probably do that, Mr Porter. But I sincerely hope I never stoop to hounding the bereaved. My God, if Llew knew …’ She broke off, fighting back the sudden rush of threatening tears and as her eyes swam she saw his face change.
‘What did you say?’
‘You’ll get your money, Mr Porter,’ she rushed on. ‘But if you need it so badly that you have to behave in this way, all I can say is I’m sorry for you. Llew might not have been as good a businessman as you. He didn’t make provision for something like this – he didn’t even leave a will. But he worked hard and he had standards. At least he could hold his head up without fear of being accused of grave-robbing.’
‘My God!’ His voice was low, shocked. ‘You don’t mean he’s dead?’
In her throat hysterical laughter bubbled wildly and was suppressed. Ralph Porter, uncrowned king of Hillsbridge, pretending ignorance. Ludicrous – utterly ludicrous!
‘You must have known, Mr Porter,’ she threw at him. ‘You were afraid, I suppose, that with Llew gone you wouldn’t be paid. Well, you need not worry. You’ll get your twenty pounds, I’ll see to that. Now get off my doorstep. Go on! Get out!’
Then, as the tears welled up once more, she caught at the door, slamming it shut. But as she leaned against it, his arrogant face seemed to mock her still and she crumpled, her fingers drawing long, painful streaks down the wood panels.
‘Beast! Beast!’ she sobbed – hatred, humiliation and grief all merging, blurring and then exploding so that she seemed on fire with them.
And then, as grief predominated and the tears drenched her cheeks: ‘Oh, Llew – Llew! Why did you have to die! Oh, Llew …’
On the pavement outside, Ralph Porter stood for a moment looking back at the house.
Dead – Llew Roberts? He had been a healthy young man when he had come to see Ralph a few weeks ago. A little too plausible for Ralph Porter’s taste, perhaps, but no one ever died of being too plausible. What had happened? Something, obviously, during the time that he, Ralph, had been in Sweden arranging new timber contracts. But what?
As always when faced with an awkward situation, Ralph Porter took refuge in the aggression that was barely hidden beneath the shallow layer of seeming indifference.
How the hell was I supposed to know anyway? he asked himself.
And turning, he climbed into the driver’s seat of the red three-wheeled Morgan.
At the football field the spirit of the Labour Party Fete was being revived for many by a quick half-pint of best bitter in the small marquee known on site as ‘the beer tent’. During the afternoon the ladies had refreshed themselves with cups of hot weak tea, scones and fairy cakes, and the children had all been given a free ‘treat’. Now it was the turn of the men to absent themselves in shifts from the proceedings. The fun of the motor-cycle six-a-side football match was over and dancing had begun, but few of them liked dancing – not until it was dark enough to waltz their partners under the trees for a quick kiss and cuddle, anyway.
Just inside the flap of the tent, Harry Hall was downing his beer with one eye trained to look out for his mother. She would be going soon, he guessed – Ruby Clark had taken Barbara and Maureen home and with nothing now to keep her Charlotte’s thoughts would be turning to James, left at home on the sofa that comprised his world these days. He could have waited until he had seen her disappear out of the gate before he began drinking in earnest, Harry supposed, for though she knew he did it Charlotte did not really approve.
But Harry had been unable to stifle the fear that his mother might ask him to accompany either her or the children – or even walk up to Dolly’s to see how she was feeling. Charlotte knew now that Dolly was expecting again and privately was not too pleased about it.
‘You’d think they’d have had more sense – at least until the boys are a bit less of a handful,’ Harry had overheard her say to James. ‘There’s no need for it now, like there was in our day.’
But Harry knew her irritability stemmed from concern – Dolly looked so pale and puffy even he was anxious about her – and he was becoming used to Charlotte’s exhortations to ‘take this up to our Dolly, there’s a good boy’. Usually he did not mind. The long days of the strike were dragging by and it sometimes seemed to him that life would be composed for evermore of days spent chewing the penny gobstoppers on sticks that were having to take the place of the cigarettes they could no longer afford, and nights of dodging the law to pick coal on the slag-heaps, or batches as they were known locally.
Today however he did not want to be despatched to check on either Amy or Dolly. He was far too keen to have his half-pint of beer in the small marquee within earshot of the men who were trying to set the world – and the mining industry – to rights. From his vantage point just inside the flap he listened, and tried to see if the dignitaries were imbibing in the beer tent too. Tom Heron was here, certainly, his slightly tremulous Somerset-cultivated tones carrying above the buzz of genuine dialect. Tom was a ‘townie’ who had made the coalfield his career, and he had had the good sense to adapt the way he spoke in order to gain the confidence of Hillsbridge working folk. In the early years he had lived in terror of being found out and the habit of taking out every word and looking at it was responsible for the slight hesitancy that was apparent now, even though his mode on speech was now second nature. Yes, Tom was there right enough, his glass being topped up again and again as he held forth on the rights of the miners’ case; and so was Eddie Roberts, Amy’s brother-in-law and another mustard-keen member of the local Labour Party. But of Owen Wynn-Jones and George Young, there was no sign.
Harry sighed, his ambitions temporarily frustrated. Eddie Roberts might be related to him by marriage, but Harry did not care for him. In Mam’s words, Eddie was ‘a bit too big for his boots’. As for approaching Tom Heron with his ideas about joining the Labour Party, Harry would as soon have entered a lion’s den. Tom knew he was only a relatively new member of the Federation – as likely as not he would pat him on the head and tell him to come back when he had grown up a bit.
But if George Young or Owen Wynn-Jones had been there, Harry felt he might very well have taken his courage in both hands and spoken to one of them. Great men they might be, but their greatness somehow made them more approachable than someone who knew him more intimately.
Or perhaps they just seem more approachable because they’re not here, Harry thought with a flash of insight. I just think I could speak to them because I don’t have to put it to the test.
‘Hey – Harry – we thought we’d find you here.’
Harry turned to see Tommy and Reg Clements slipping in under the awning.
‘Yes, we saw your Mam just now and she said to tell you she’s gone on home.’
‘On the loose, Harry, on the loose! Have another half of bitter.’
Harry dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his loose change. The beer in the tent was being sold at a special cheap rate, but even so he did not think he could afford it. Besides, now he knew the Labour Party officials were not here, the appeal of the hop-heavy, smoky air had lessened.
‘Have you seen Owen Wynn-Jones on your travels?’ he enquired.
The two Clements boys looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses.
‘Who?’
‘Owen Wynn-Jones – who made the speech?’
‘Oh, him.’ The Clements’ interest in politics was predictably negligible. ‘What do you want him for?’
Harry coloured. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I just wanted to see him again,’ he said and their ribald laughter made him think; coming out into the political arena was not going to be as easy as he had imagined. They were all on the same side, yes, but at his age and with no background for it, no one was going to take him seriously – or if they did, they would probably think him, like Eddie Roberts, ‘too big for his boots’.
‘I think I’ll have a walk round outside, anyway.’ Harry said. ‘Get some fresh air.’
They shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. You’ll know where to find us.’
‘Too true I will,’ Harry joked.
Outside the beer tent it was soft dusk. The band was playing for the dancing: ‘Ramona … I hear the mission bells above … Ramona … they’re ringing out their songs of love …’ and on the square of field lit by the carbide lamps couples were waltzing. Harry stopped for a minute to watch them and saw, out of the corner of his eye, a figure he recognised standing alone under the trees.
Margaret!
Dare he go and speak to her again, Harry wondered, remembering she had turned down his invitation to go in the swinging-boats? But then – nothing venture nothing gain, and he could not imagine her actually snubbing him.
Trying to appear nonchalant, he sidled up to her. ‘Hello. Finished on your stall, then?’
She half-turned, smiling. ‘Oh yes. We sold out a long time ago; we did really well.’
‘Good. Money for the kitty.’
Her face went serious. ‘How can you joke about it? My Dad says …’
‘Where is your Dad?’ he asked.
‘He’s gone home. And Mum. They had to give Owen Wynn-Jones supper and then he has to get back to Wales. He’s got another rally there tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Harry tried to think of something clever or appreciative to say, but words failed him.
Just think of it! Owen Wynn-Jones having supper at her house – sitting at the table where she sat! He looked at her with respectful eyes and it seemed to him she had taken on some of the glamour of the great man.
‘Would you like to dance?’ he said.
‘Oh – I’m not very good. We have lessons at school, but …’
‘I’m not very good either,’ he admitted ‘And I can’t see how you can dance properly on grass either. When we go to Madame Roland’s classes, the floor is polished up with French chalk or something and the really serious ones wear special shoes.’
‘Special shoes?’ She sounded fascinated.
‘Yes. They take them in a bag so as not to wear them out of doors.’
‘Oh!’ Her eyes narrowed dreamily. ‘I wish I could go to Madame Roland’s.’
Harry seized his opportunity. ‘I’ll take you if you like.’
‘Would you?’ She broke off, biting her lip. ‘Oh, it’s no good, I’d never be allowed.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for one thing I’m supposed to be concentrating on my exams so that I can matriculate. It costs quite a lot for me to go to the Higher Elementary.’
‘He pays for you?’ Harry asked, surprised.
‘Yes. £4 7s 6d a term.’
‘But I thought if you got a scholarship …’
‘That it’s free? Yes, it is. But I didn’t! For one thing we missed the time for applying and for another, I’m not really that clever. But I do want to do well. I don’t want to let Dad down. I mean – paying for a girl. So many parents say they’d do it for a boy, but girls only get married anyway.’
‘That’s true enough, I suppose,’ Harry said, thinking of Dolly and Amy. Matriculation was all very well, but not really necessary in order to run a home and have babies. ‘You can’t study all the time though,’ he pressed her. ‘And Madame Roland’s is on a Saturday night. You could always have a lie-in on Sunday morning.’
‘Oh no, I have to go to chapel.’ She spoke fiercely, with none of the resentment Harry himself displayed on the occasions when Mam put her foot down and said it was about time he put in an appearance in the family pew.
‘I’ve never seen you in chapel,’ he said, trying to impress her with his doubtful piety.
‘That’s because you’re Methodists. We’re Baptists,’ she said and he was startled to realise how much she knew about him. ‘Anyway, I don’t think Dad really approves of dancing. It’s supposed to be one of the devices of the devil.’
‘Your Dad thinks that?’ Harry was amazed.
‘He’s not really one to lay down the law, but I have heard it said. And I’ll tell you something he definitely doesn’t approve of,’ she added with a sly twinkle, ‘and that’s strong drink. You smell of it!’
Harry’s face was a picture. ‘Oh, I didn’t know – I only had a half …’
‘You should sign the pledge,’ she said. ‘Turn teetotal. It does you no good, you know. It’s a waste of money and people do really awful things when they’ve had too much to drink.’
‘Well, I haven’t!’ Harry said indignantly, feeling he had somehow been put to the test and failed miserably. ‘I can’t see that just a drop does any harm.’
‘Maybe not.’ She tilted her head to one side like a bird and red-gold bobbed hair fell tantalisingly over the square of freckled chest. ‘You asked me to dance just now.’
‘Well – yes …’
‘Then let’s – or have you changed your mind?’
‘No, of course I haven’t!’
Feeling a little nonplussed now that the invitation had caught up with him, Harry led her across the rough grass to the square where the dancing was in progress.
Dusk was falling rapidly now; in the beams of light from the carbide lamps moths pirouetted and swirled in their own waltzes and tarantellas and the crushed-grass smell overpowered the last remaining scent of hops in his nostrils.
With slight awkwardness he took hold of her, one hand tentatively resting on her waist, the other holding her hand. Her touch in contrast to his own moist palm was cool, but he could feel the warmth of her body through the thin georgette of her dress. He took a step and trod on her toe.
