The emerald valley, p.47
The Emerald Valley, page 47
He noticed how her face softened when she spoke of Huw. What had possessed her to take in the boy on top of all her other responsibilities, he wondered. Well, whatever the motive, she was clearly very fond of him now, treating him as if he was as much her own as the girls and worrying about him too.
He pressed her elbow again. ‘You can take it from me that they will all have their mother around for a good deal longer. Someone like you is not so easily killed off, Amy!’
‘Good.’ There was a lift of determination in her voice, as if she was dismissing the fear, and it struck Oliver yet again what a formidable woman she had become. Attractive, yes – with her looks that was obvious – and intelligent and vital. But formidable too, with a strength partly inherited and partly nurtured in those dark days when she had lain on the sofa in her childhood home, her back raw, and later gathered the courage to learn to walk again. Life had not treated her easily, golden girl though she had once seemed to be. Yet she had come through it all with spirit and determination, allowing nothing to get her down for very long. How different from the way in which some people reacted to the problems – often much smaller – in their lives. Mountains produced mountaineers, he supposed, while molehills produced only moles …
The thought made him smile briefly.
‘You mustn’t overdo things, though,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s a waste of my breath telling you that, but if you have any sense you will listen to what I say. A blow like you had can affect you in all sorts of ways …’
‘I thought you said I was all right!’ she interposed sharply.
‘I said you’re not going to die. But it does sound to me as if your body is crying out for rest. Take my advice and give it what it needs.’
Amy tossed her head. ‘Oh, I can’t rest! I’ve far too much to do. There are new contracts to quote for, for one thing. Then I have a new young man starting next week and workmen coming in to put up a new store. I can’t possibly take a holiday.’
‘I wish you would stop putting words into my mouth, Amy! Did you hear me mention a holiday? It would do you good, of course, but I know better than to even suggest that. No, what I said was take things easy. For everyone’s sake – not least the children.’
‘All right, I promise to try,’ she said. But he knew she would not.
During the next few weeks Amy continued to experience the pains in her head. Sharp and debilitating as ever, they came sometimes two or three times a day, each one lasting for anything up to half an hour, accompanied by the cold sweats and nausea and subsiding to leave her weak and trembling. But she tried not to be so frightened by them and when Oliver Scott called – something he was beginning to make a habit of – she made light of them, though his visits evoked in her a mixed response. It was comforting to feel he was ‘Keeping an eye on her’but also disconcerting, for she couldn’t help wondering if he was more concerned about her than he was prepared to admit.
Then gradually she became aware that the pains were coming less often, lasting a shorter time and having less drastic effect on her, and when she told him so he smiled his slow, cheek-creasing smile.
‘There you are, what did I tell you? You’re on the mend.’
But still he continued to drop in whenever he was passing, sharing a cup of tea in the comfortable clutter of her kitchen, talking to Barbara in the same serious grown-up way he had once talked to her, and discussing boys’topics with Huw, whose first suspicion of him seemed to have deepened into something close to respect.
Spring became summer. Amy almost forgot she had ever had the pains, so seldom did they now come, and life continued in the same busy pattern as before. But still Oliver Scott’s car regularly drew up outside the house in Hope Terrace, and one afternoon during the school summer holidays when she went to collect both the girls from next door, Amy was shocked when Ruby Clarke made mention of it.
‘I see the doctor was at your place again last night; his car was there when we came home from the whist drive. Nellie Newth was quite concerned when she saw it – wondered if there was something wrong – but I told her that we’ve got quite used to it, and he just pays a social visit now and then.’
‘That’s right.’ Amy managed to remain aloof. She had always thought there was more gossip exchanged than cards played at the weekly whist drives and was annoyed now to think that she had been the subject of some of it. The memory of the two women in the Co-op discussing her still rankled, too; though she thought Ruby was unlikely to talk about her in that way, she seemed to hear the voice of others who would:
‘Who does she think she is, eh? The doctor calls on her, you know. Oh no, nobody bad in the house, but he calls all the same. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’
Amy drew herself up now. ‘We are very old friends, Ruby,’ she snapped. ‘I have known Dr Scott since I was eight years old and if anybody wishes to make something out of that, you can be sure they will get a flea in their ear if I hear about it!’
‘Oh, I’m sure no one would, Amy,’ Ruby replied hastily.
The conversation left an unpleasant taste in Amy’s mouth for a few days, but she was too busy to worry about it for long. Although she did feel a pang of misplaced guilt the next time Oliver Scott arrived unannounced at her door, she made sure to invite him inside in a voice loud enough to carry across the alleyway to Ruby, should she be listening.
As always, Oliver settled himself on the high-backed kitchen chair, swinging it up onto its two back legs in a manner Amy would have swiftly reprimanded Huw for copying. But there was something slightly withdrawn in his manner, as if beneath his easygoing professional front he was hiding a secret sadness. It was not the first time during his visits that Amy had noticed this, just as she had also observed that a cup of tea and a chat always seemed to lighten his mood so that the jocularity became natural instead of forced, but she had always refrained from mentioning it.
Today, however, was different and as she placed a cup of tea on the scrubbed wood table beside him, Amy said, ‘You’re very quiet.’
‘Am I?’ He looked almost startled. ‘Well, maybe I am. Maybe I have things on my mind.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Oh, nothing worth talking about.’ But there was a shadow in his eyes as he said it and she felt instinctively that something was making him unhappy. Then, almost instantly, she dismissed the thought as fanciful. Oliver had a lovely wife and two beautiful children; he was successful and sought after in his chosen calling, and had even managed to buy himself into a practice in the very place where he wanted to be. Why on earth should he be hiding some mysterious secret sadness?
‘How are Grace and the children?’ she asked, as she always did.
‘Fine,’ he murmured, but the veil did not lift.
‘I saw them the other day,’ Amy went on.
Oliver’s head came up with a jerk. ‘Oh?’
‘Just across the street. They were walking along the pavement outside the rectory and I was parking in the station yard.’
‘Oh yes, your famous car. You’ve caused quite a stir in Hillsbridge with that!’
‘I don’t know how I should manage without it now,’ she said. ‘I’m surprised Grace hasn’t asked you if she can have one.’
Again the troubled look seemed to close his face. ‘Grace did learn to drive, but she hasn’t done so for some time now. She had a slight accident and it unnerved her.’
‘Oh dear – nothing serious, I hope?’
‘She had a confrontation with a motor-cyclist. The lad came off worst, of course, and broke a leg, and the whole thing was pretty unpleasant. Now I’m afraid Grace is nervous even riding with me.’
Remembering the horrible experience of running into Ralph Porter’s car, Amy said, ‘Well, I can understand her, I suppose.’
But this did not tie in with her image of Grace, all the same. The woman she remembered had been so full of self-confidence that it would have been more in character for her to berate the unfortunate motor-cyclist, Amy thought.
Abruptly she changed the subject. ‘Have you seen Dolly’s Noël lately?’
Oliver Scott shifted his chair on to all four legs. ‘She brought him to the surgery last week. He’s a fine boy.’
‘Yes.’ Amy bit her lip. Physically Noël was a fine boy – sturdy, with rosy cheeks and the mass of fair curls which were a family heritage. But all their early fears had turned out to be justified – mentally Noël was still a baby, his eyes round and vacant, mouth lolling to emit a constant fine stream of dribble down his chin and on to the front of the little blouses that Dolly changed two or three times a day.
When the first tide of distress had spent itself, Dolly had taken the blow stoically, being blessed with her father’s gift of calm acceptance. But Charlotte was still ‘in a way’about it and Amy, to her shame, found herself unable to take to the little boy. He disconcerted her, making her see a side of life which she preferred not to think about. Now, however – since he was a patient of Oliver’s – she was relieved to be able to talk about him and steer the conversation away from the obviously vexed subject of Grace.
‘Whatever will become of Noël?’ Amy asked, pouring tea.
‘Immediately, or in the long term?’
‘Both, really. I suppose he’s happy enough at the moment; he doesn’t know anything different. But when he grows up a bit, won’t he realise he’s not like other children?’
‘Unlikely.’ Oliver took the cup from her and spooned sugar into it. ‘Boys and girls like him are quite often very happy people.’
‘But surely he’ll get teased?’
‘I should imagine his two older brothers will be very protective of him. They may squabble amongst themselves, but just let an outsider say a word out of place and I can picture how the fur would fly!’
The back door opened then, cutting him short as Huw came in, black as a pot from head to toe.
‘Huw!’ she exclaimed. ‘What have you been doing?’
He shrugged, looking not at her but at the doctor, his expression glowering. Oh, surely he’s not going to turn against Oliver the way he did against Ralph! Amy thought … and wondered why the thought of Ralph could trigger off a little twist of excitement although she had not seen him to speak to for more than a year.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked again.
‘On the batch.’
‘I can see that!’ He looked at her as much as to say: Well then, why did you ask? and she went on, ‘You know I don’t like you going on the batch. It’s a filthy place – and dangerous too. All that loose dust and rubble – you tell him, Dr Scott!’
Oliver smiled ruefully. ‘You’ll never stop boys going on the batch, Amy. Just be glad the other two are girls.’
‘That’s one thing Dolly won’t have to put up with so far as Noël’s concerned,’ Amy fumed. ‘At least she can keep an eye on him – except of course when he goes to school. If he’s able to go, that is.’
Huw, kicking off his boots in the corner, muttered something.
‘What did you say?’ Amy asked sharply, still annoyed with him.
‘Nothing.’
‘You did, I heard you. What did you say?’
‘I said “the funny school”. I suppose he’ll be going to the funny school,’ Huw mumbled.
‘What do you mean – the funny school?’
‘The one for kids who aren’t all there. You know.’
‘I do not know …’ Amy began, but Oliver Scott cut in:
‘He means the Special School. It’s run by a very good woman. There are eight or ten pupils from all around the district and she does wonders with them, though of course they have shorter hours than the ordinary school – something like half-past nine until two o’clock.’
‘I never heard of that,’ Amy said, thinking: How long have I lived in this place? I thought I knew everything and everyone!
‘Yes, I’m sure Noël will be able to go there when he’s a bit older,’ Oliver went on and as the conversation drew her attention away, Amy forgot to wonder how Huw had known what she did not – of the existence of the special school.
Later, when Doctor Scott had gone and Huw, scrubbed clean in spite of his continuing aversion to soap and water, was sitting curled up in the fireside chair with his cigarette card collection, she asked him about it.
‘How did you know about the school?’
Huw did not even bother to look up. ‘Everybody knows about the funny school.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Haven’t you ever seen the funnies going there?’
Amy winced. ‘Don’t call them that, Huw. It’s horrible. They’re children just like you.’
‘No, they’re not. I’ve seen them going round the street, great big boys holding on to their mother’s hand – I’d never hold anyone’s hand!’
‘When have you seen them?’ Amy asked, astonished.
‘Oh, some mornings …’
‘But you’re at school yourself!’
‘In the holidays,’ Huw muttered and though his head was bent over his cigarette cards, Amy had the distinct impression he had gone red.
‘But surely when you’re on holiday the special school must be on holiday too!’ she challenged.
‘Oh, I don’t know – stop getting on to me!’ Huw complained and Amy sighed, her annoyance at Huw’s attitude to the children forgotten as this new problem reared its head. She had thought Huw had settled in well … almost too well. And now this!
Huw’s school was a good mile out of Hillsbridge, so if he had been in town when the children were being taken to or from the special school, then he had no business to be. Had he been playing truant? This was something she had not thought of before, despite his attempts to run away; certainly she had had no complaints from the headmistress who, if not exactly ruling with a rod of iron, certainly used tempered steel. But there was no other explanation and Amy made up her mind; she would have to ask for an appointment to see the headmistress to find out if Huw had been skipping school. For the moment there was not much point in pursuing the matter, though; it would only fuel the build-up of resentment.
‘Right, Huw, it’s your bedtime,’ she said sternly. ‘But just one more word before you go upstairs. If I ever hear you refer to the Special School as the “funny school” again, or call names at the children who go there, you will be in serious trouble. Do you understand?’
He said nothing, but his face remained set in the mulish expression and Amy went on, ‘Just think yourself lucky, Huw, that you were born whole and well. Children like Aunty Dolly’s Noël will never be able to do all the things you can do, and you would do well to remember that.’
His head still bent, he muttered something unintelligible.
‘What was that?’ Amy asked crossly, suspecting something rude.
‘I said that at least they’ve got mums and dads, most of them,’ Huw repeated.
Amy went cold inside. So despite all her efforts he was still grieving, he still felt alone in the world. Guilt swamped her. Perhaps she had not done enough? True she had given him a home, probably better than he had had before, but she could never replace his mother. And she was so seldom there. Could she have made him more secure if she had been less tied up with the business? But whatever the ifs and buts, he still carried his burdens and counted himself less well off than children like Noel who, for all their disabilities, were part of a secure, loving family.
‘Oh Huw!’ she said softly, searching for words and knowing that anything she said would be inadequate. ‘Huw, I know it’s not like having your own mother, but you have got us. And we do love you.’
He did not answer and looking at the scrubbed face above the untidy shirt collar, the scowling expression, the grimy-nailed hands clutching possessively at the cigarette cards, she thought: It’s true, I do love him. I took him in because I felt responsible, but somewhere along the line I have grown to love him. With all his trying ways, I’ve come to love this little boy.
‘Come here,’ she said.
When he didn’t move she went to him, pulling his face against her breast and folding her arms around his skinny shoulders. For a moment she hugged him tight, then held him away.
‘Maybe I don’t take the place of your mother, but to me you’re the son I never had. Remember that, eh?’
He nodded slowly.
‘Bed, then. And remember too that for you there is always tomorrow. Lots of tomorrows!’
Another nod. But after he had gone upstairs Amy sat for a long while thinking. Would he ever recover from his experiences? She didn’t know. But she determined to make an even bigger effort to fill the empty corners of his heart. Yet even as she reached the decision, she doubted her own ability to carry it through.
At the front-room window of the house in Tower View, Margaret Young stood twitching the curtain nets in order to get a better view of the road. Occasionally people appeared, walking up the pavement – a couple strolling hand in hand, a girl pushing a bicycle, a man walking a small mongrel dog. But the one she was looking for had not come into sight. Harry had arranged to collect her and take her to the pictures and he was already almost fifteen minutes late.
Margaret strained forward so as to see an extra few feet of road, chewing on her lip. Unless he came soon they wouldn’t get a good seat, but would be forced right to the front of the cheap seats where the screen towered above and the huge flashing images made your head ache. Worse still, they might miss the beginning of the film altogether and she did so want to see it. The Jazz Singer with Al Jolson, the ‘Singing Fool’, in the leading role, was the first so-called ‘talkie’. It had caused a sensation when it was released the previous year and now, after a long wait, it was actually being shown here in Hillsbridge.
Margaret had been delighted when Harry offered to take her to see the film. She saw so little of him these days. His ambition had switched abruptly from local politics to studying at evening classes with a view to getting promotion at work, and he had spent very little time with her for months now. Even his precious pigeons had been pushed into the background. Now that his ambitions had taken off, flying faster and higher than the best homing bird, he had lost interest in the breeding process and was selling off his stock to the youngest Brixey boy. But Margaret was puzzled as well as dismayed and irritated by the shift in his priorities.
