The Hills and the Valley

by Janet Tanner

  James wheezed and covered his mouth with a thin hand in which the veins, dark with coal dust, stood out in cords and knots. His blue eyes were rheumy and distant.

  ‘Never mind, m’dear,’ he said, resorting to his usual calm acceptance. ‘Worse things happen at sea, you know. Worse things happen at sea!’

  Chapter Eight

  By the end of May when the horse chestnut trees at the Hillsbridge end of the New Road were heavy with fragrant mauve and white cones and the flowers in the dusty beds beneath them were beginning to bloom into a carpet of red, white and blue, the towns folk had forgotten the stir which had been caused by Alec Hall jilting Joan Tiley and getting into a fight with Bryda Latcham’s husband, Eric. They had even forgotten the excitement of hearing that Harry Hall might be selected as prospective Labour Candidate for the constituency. For the war which throughout the winter had seemed so distant and unreal had suddenly erupted.

  Hitler’s troops had rampaged through France, driving the Allied force back until they were trapped on the beaches of Dunkirk, and the people of Hills bridge along with the rest of the country had followed the news of their evacuation by a flotilla of small boats with a mixture of dismay and stubborn pride.

  Unbelievably, Hitler was on the doorstep now, kept at bay only by the narrow moat of the English Channel. Hearts beat faster but faces remained set with stoic calm and even optimism. ‘Let him try to take us the way he’s taken France! Just let him try …’

  More young local men were conscripted; every day it seemed there was news of someone else receiving their call-up papers and all those between the ages of twenty and twenty-eight who had not yet registered were required to do so by the twenty-fifth of the month. The Home Guard were busy drilling and arranging defensive fall-back positions should Hitler penetrate the coastal defences – in one practice at South Compton the entire unit had to be removed from one side of the barrier they had erected to the other when it was realised that any Germans marching inland from the coast would come upon their undefended rear. The auxiliary services, too, were all busy and though recruitment was still voluntary, rumour had it that before long service would be ‘frozen’and none of the present number of air raid wardens, amateur policemen, firemen or first aiders would be able to resign.

  The issue of gas masks was now complete – every man, woman and child had theirs in a cardboard box under the stairs – and they were advised to practise with them regularly. Everyone had to carry a registration card with them at all times. All signposts and station signs had disappeared and even the directions on AA boxes had been removed as the Government tried to ensure that should the Germans arrive as they were threatening to do there would be not a single telltale sign to let them know their whereabouts.

  But most noteworthy of all was the news which broke towards the end of the month. At last the town had a real live hero of its own – Marcus Spindler, younger son of Sir Richard, owner of Hillsbridge Collieries and half the town besides.

  Marcus Spindler had always been very much Hillsbridge’s ‘golden boy’. Whilst Henry, the elder son, was a serious young man who had been raised and educated as heir apparent to the Spindler estates which stretched far beyond the Colliery Company, Marcus had been allowed to shine in his own way. At his public school he had discovered more of an aptitude for sport than academic excellence – and since the school was famous and not more than five miles from Hillsbridge, his exploits were frequently reported in the Mercury. From school he had somehow managed to secure a place at Oxford and there he had gained the honour of two ‘blues’ – one in cricket, the other in rugby football. The Mercury had emblazoned his picture on the front page, and once again the people of Hillsbridge had murmured proudly: ‘He’s done well. You’ve got to hand it to him – he’s done well!’

  When the Spindler’s chauffeur-driven car passed through Hillsbridge many people were still old-fashioned enough to tip their caps. And Marcus, charmer that he was, would nod and smile so that the same people would compare him with his rather shy elder brother and say ‘He’s not stuck up, either. He could be, but he’s not!’

  When war had come, Marcus Spindler had been one of the first to be called upon to serve his country. As a Captain in the TA he had been offered a commission in the regular army and Hillsbridge had seen him leave resplendent in his smart new uniform – the Welsh Guards. They would have liked him to be in the Somersets, but no matter. Wherever he was, Marcus Spindler would do them proud.

  Now they knew he had not disappointed them. He and his company had been ambushed by a German patrol in Normandy during Hitler’s push to the Channel coast, so the story went, and in the short bloody skirmish that had ensued they had all been killed. All but Marcus, who had been wounded in the leg and left for dead. But Marcus was not dead, far from it. With the same dauntless spirit which had helped him to carry his team to victory on the sports field he had somehow managed to drag himself over miles of rough country to find the rest of his battalion and warn them of Germans in the vicinity. Only then had he collapsed from exhaustion and loss of blood.

  The rumour going round Hillsbridge was that he was going to be decorated, though all reports of the incident in the Mercury were necessarily muted for security purposes. Well, a decoration meant anything from the Victoria Cross down. Hillsbridge, with loyalty and pride for its ‘golden boy’in full bloom, was certain it must be the Victoria Cross.

  That summer, when there was so little to be cheery about, it was a bright spot in a darkening sky. And as the storm clouds gathered the story was passed from mouth to mouth, everyone adding a little embellishment of their own, yet certain of the core of truth, nonetheless.

  Marcus Spindler had showed the world that Hillsbridge was a place to be reckoned with. Where he had led the rest of them could follow.

  Harry’s interview for selection as prospective Labour candidate was set for a Saturday afternoon in June – to allow good time for the other three hopefuls to travel to the Party headquarters in the small market town some seven miles from Hillsbridge, Harry supposed.

  The family had an early lunch, Elaine and Marie were sent off to spend the afternoon with Gussie, and Harry and Margaret set off in the car, Harry smartly dressed in his best grey suit with an appropriate red tie, Margaret wearing the dress she had considered most suitable – a pretty but modest floral print in shades of green with a matching jacket since she had nothing red in her wardrobe.

  ‘It’s funny really, I feel I have to impress though I’ve known most of the committee all my life,’ Margaret said as they drove through the rolling green countryside. She was feeling ridiculously nervous and from Harry’s silence she could tell he was, too, though on the surface he appeared calm.

  The Party headquarters was in a square and rather dilapidated building in the oldest part of the town. Harry parked the car and they went up the flight of crumbling stone steps and into the small anteroom. Two of the other hopefuls were already there with their wives, sitting on the hard rickety sit-up-and-beg chairs and eyeing one another suspiciously. As Harry and Margaret went in they transferred their attention to him – perhaps because Roly Everard the agent immediately approached them in friendly manner, slapping Harry on the back and greeting Margaret with a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Good to see you both. You managed to find enough petrol to get here then? The first candidate is in with the Committee now so it will be another hour or so before they get to you. They’re seeing you last,’ he explained.

  His wife, Gladys, another faithful party worker, emerged from the minute kitchen.

  ‘How about a cup of tea?’ she offered.

  ‘Sounds just the job!’ Harry said heartily but Margaret declined, trying to hide her nerves. It was going to be a long afternoon and the last thing she wanted was to be desperate to spend a penny during Harry’s interview.

  As they waited they made small talk but Margaret could see that Harry was becoming preoccupied and she guessed he was worried about the speech he was going to
have to make. Harry worried about making speeches just as her father had done, she knew. Harry was no natural orator, either, and all his speeches were carefully prepared and practised endlessly in front of the bathroom mirror, though he was far better at the quick off-the-cuff rejoinder than her father had been. His job had prepared him for that, she supposed.

  Slowly the minutes ticked by. The first candidate came out of the interview room looking rather pleased with himself and Harry’s heart sank. The man looked a natural, big and bluff with an Honest Joe face and a flatteringly receding hairline, but when Harry heard him make a sotto voce remark to his wife about ‘country folk’in a London accent he allowed himself to hope that perhaps the man had overreached himself. It was all too easy for city folk, especially those from the capital, to underestimate the know how and ability of those they might regard as bumpkins and such an attitude would not go down well with the Committee who would brand it as ‘cocksure’. The second candidate emerged looking less happy, the third decidedly disgruntled. And then it was Harry’s turn. He and Margaret were ushered into the Committee Room where the eight-man executive sat ranged along the big old polished table. All familiar, friendly faces – except one. Harry was aware of Eddie Roberts’baleful gaze and felt his heart sink. If Eddie could make things difficult for him he would do it. Eddie was a man looking for revenge.

  ‘Afternoon Hall, Mrs Hall. Thank you for coming.’ Like Margaret, William Terry, the Chairman, was a teacher, an ex-headmaster and a highly respected union man. But despite knowing both Margaret and Harry well he managed to inject his voice with a modicum of formality. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell us why you believe we should select you as our prospective Labour member.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Harry launched into his prepared speech and as she listened Margaret watched the faces of the Committee. Mostly interested, though old Fred Hobday, a County Councillor for more years than anyone could remember, looked as though he might be on the point of nodding off, and Eddie Roberts hand resting on his chin, eyes narrowed, was obviously watching for any weakness he could home in on.

  Harry finished his speech. He had done well, Margaret thought proudly.

  ‘Right. Now has anyone got a question they would like to ask?’ William Terry enquired. ‘I know we’re all familiar with Harry’s views and the work he has done for the Party over the years, but there may be some specific points we would like clarified.’

  ‘Yes. We’re all aware of your interest in industrial matters, but this is also a rural community.’ The speaker was one of the country dwellers. ‘Where do you stand on the issue of farm subsidies, Mr Hall?’

  Harry had been prepared for this. ‘I’m in favour. Particularly at the moment when we need to grow as much of our own food as possible.’

  A few more questions were asked but Eddie had remained silent. Then just as it seemed the interview was at an end he straightened in his chair.

  ‘I’d like to know how you are able to be a committed socialist, Harry, when so many of the closest members of your family have directly opposing interests,’ he said.

  Heads turned to look at him.

  ‘Would you, for instance, feel able to vote for changes which might spell ruin for your own sister?’ he asked smoothly.

  Margaret felt her cheeks flush with anger. How dare Eddie bring Amy into this?

  ‘I don’t quite understand the question,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t believe it is any part of our policy to ruin good business ventures which employ a number of people simply because they are successful. But let me say here and now that I am fully committed to furthering the cause of the working man and his family. Any legislation which assists that would have my full support, just so long as it’s not a case of cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face.’ He knew he had used a cliché and instantly regretted it. ‘My loyalty is totally for the people I would represent. No personal considerations would ever be allowed to interfere with that. On that I give you my word,’ he added.

  ‘Quite. I don’t think your dedication to the cause is in any doubt, Hall, or we wouldn’t have called you here today,’ William Terry assured him. ‘Now, if there are no more questions …’

  ‘What a nerve!’ Margaret whispered to Harry as they took their place once more in the outer office to await deliberations. ‘Eddie knows very well you would never betray your principles for anyone!’

  ‘He was just trying to get at me,’ Harry said philosophically. ‘I shall have to put up with a good deal worse than that if I’m selected.’

  ‘Well, I very nearly told them what I thought about it!’ Margaret continued angrily. ‘I know you and Eddie have never seen eye to eye, but all the same …’

  ‘How did you think it went?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Oh fine. You were wonderful.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I’m sure they’ll choose you, Harry. It’s a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘You weren’t that sure on the way here.’

  ‘I was nervous then. That was before I heard you speak.’

  ‘And you’re not nervous now?’

  ‘Well, I suppose just a little,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m sure they’ll choose you all the same.’

  They had to wait another nerve-racking half hour before the agent popped his head round the Committee Room door and asked Harry and Margaret to step back in. They exchanged glances, aware of the eyes of the other candidates upon them.

  ‘Well, Hall,’ William Terry began when they were once again installed in front of the large polished table. ‘I expect you know what I’m going to say. We’ve discussed all the pros and cons and on behalf of the Committee I would like to ask you formally if you would be prepared to stand as prospective Labour candidate for this constituency. The Committee are unanimous in selecting you as their first choice,’ he added.

  Margaret felt the swell of pride begin within her. She had known it! She had known it all the time! Harry – prospective Labour candidate. Perhaps Harry – MP!

  Harry waited for the bubble of triumph and felt nothing. Flat. Numb. The interview and the tension had taken more out of him than he could have gussed.

  But unanimous … he glanced at Eddie, sitting and staring impassively at the sheet of paper in front of him on which he had been making notes.. Eddie had voted for him. But why? Because he had seen how the land lay perhaps and had gone along with the majority view to save his own skin? He wouldn’t come right out and oppose – Eddie was too devious for that. But it didn’t mean he agreed with the Committee’s choice and it didn’t mean he would make things easy for Harry either. Oh well, the first rule of battle was ‘Know your enemy’. Harry knew Eddie right enough, knew every little facet of his twisted nature – or so he thought.

  He thrust Eddie and the battles ahead to the back of his mind.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said, smiling at the Committee. ‘I am very honoured that you should put your trust in me. I shall be delighted to do everything in my power to repay that trust. And if we do not return a Labour member at the next General Election I assure you it will not be from lack of effort on my part.’

  Margaret beamed thinking how proud and pleased her father would be if he were here now. And once again the thought flipped across her mind like a portent for the future.

  Harry Hall MP.

  Barbara Roberts was worried. As the war hotted up, coming closer and closer to home she could think of one thing and one thing only – Huw.

  News of what he and his squadron were doing was necessarily sketchy for the letters he sent home were heavily censored, but reading between the lines they knew he had flown operational sorties over France and Belgium and been in the skies during the evacuation of Dunkirk. When the squadron was sent north for a week at the beginning of June Ralph had said that would be for recuperation purposes and Barbara had known he must have had a tough time to be in need of recuperation.

  Now it was the middle of July, the squadron was at Hornchurch and in the thick of an action that was being dubbe
d the Battle of Britain. The Germans, still intent on laying siege to the island which alone in Europe was continuing to defy their might, were bombing convoys in the Channel and even attempting a strike at the fighter bases in the south east, and the RAF planes flown by young men like Huw were attempting to hold them back. There were reports of dogfights over the sea, with aircraft, both English and German, spiralling down trailing smoke to explode in a ball of fire or vanish forever.

  Just thinking about it made Barbara go cold but she thought about it often all the same, as if to forget for a single moment of a single day would somehow mean disaster for Huw. As long as she was willing him to be all right then he would be all right, she told herself, but it was a strain all the same and even more of a strain to keep her anxiety hidden from her mother, from Ralph and especially from Maureen, who only mocked and told her: ‘For goodness sake, Babs, there’s nothing you can do about it. You might as well put it out of your mind.’

  She could not. She did not even want to. It overshadowed everything, even her efforts to plan her own future. It was almost the end of her last term at school now, another week and she would hang up her straw boater for the last time, but she had still not reached any definite decision as to what she would do – enlist for a secretarial course so as to be able to help out with her mother’s business as Ralph wanted her to, or try to join one of the women’s services as she herself had wanted. It would be good to feel she was doing something towards the war effort, she thought, but if she did she would be sent heavens knew where and that might mean she would not see Huw for years. At least if she was here in Hillsbridge she was on the spot if he was able to get some leave and come home.

  Yet if women were made liable for call-up as some said they soon would be the decision would be taken out of her hands. She would have to go. As she and Maureen rattled home on a service bus from Bath one afternoon in late July she stared thoughtfully out of the window, whilst beside her Maureen read a paper novelette which had almost been confiscated by one of the Sisters at school.