A Welcome in the Valley

by A Welcome in the Valley (retail) (epub)

  Careful not to sound condescending, Amy said, ‘I’ll make a cup of tea. Then I thought I’d wash your hair and show you a new style I saw in last week’s magazine. It’s months since you let me do your hair, and you know how I love doing it.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’m going into town tomorrow, I’ll have it done there.’

  Amy looked around the over-tidy room with its expensive carpet and furniture. It was tempting to point out to Prue that few people in Hen Carw Parc would consider her life a sad one. The kitchen was full of the latest gadgets and boasted a large fridge and a washing machine. She looked at Prue and smiled.

  ‘I suppose you think I should be grateful,’ Prue said.

  ‘You’ve got Harry, and he’s done well.’

  ‘We’ve done well,’ Prue corrected. ‘I’ve worked this business up as much as him. Did you know when he started I did the buying and the book keeping? I employed the labour, I sorted out difficult payers. He wouldn’t have known what to do, those early years, if it hadn’t been for me.’

  ‘I work single-handed in a small shop and live in one room above it with two children.’

  ‘But you have children.’

  ‘But no husband.’

  ‘You chose to live that way!’

  ‘We all have choices, Prue.’

  ‘That isn’t true.’

  Amy was thankful when the clock struck three and she was able to make her excuses and leave. She guessed that Prue and Harry had had one of their regular rows, and for once was glad her sister was not the sort to confide in her.

  She walked through the small group of expensive houses with their winter gardens bravely showing a few snowdrops and crocus, and past the lane to Nelly’s cottage. She saw someone coming down and hurried past, not wanting to be stopped by Nelly. It took a moment to realise that the figure was not Nelly, but a slim, heavily limping man. It was a bit early in the year for hikers, but that was probably what he was.

  She walked on, past the row of cottages opposite her own, and stood outside the school gates. She was early for meeting Margaret, but she did not feel like going indoors. She needed the cold air and a quiet moment before going home, and Margaret would be pleased to see her waiting.

  Her blue eyes were shining, the colour so brilliant that the whites were tinged with blue. She wore her habitual smile but she was dismayed. She regretted asking Prue if Harry would do the work on the shop. Now it would be impossible to ask Harry. She sighed. Life had certainly become complicated once more.

  * * *

  Friday morning was Nelly’s second visit to Mrs French, and the night before, she had put her hair into curlers made from pipe cleaners to look a bit tidy, so when she opened the door for the dogs to run out, she was disgusted to see rain.

  ‘Waste of time that was! And uncomfortable. Think I’ll get meself a smart cut,’ she muttered to the dogs, who went out with the assistance of her foot and returned within seconds. She pulled out a large plastic mac and opened a man’s umbrella she had bought in a jumble sale, and went to the woods. Like the dogs, she stayed no longer than she had to.

  When she walked down the lane and turned right to Mrs French’s house, she still carried the umbrella and the dogs walked sedately beside her, less eager than usual to run ahead.

  ‘You’ll have to tie them outside, Nelly.’ Mrs French showed disapproval as the dogs looked hopefully at the kitchen door.

  ‘Stick ’em near the door, they won’t ’urt.’ Ignoring the request for them to stay in the yard, Nelly attached their ropes to the door handle and told them to sit. She took off her mac and the large coat that Mrs French thought smelt only slightly better than the dogs, and began work.

  ‘It’s good news about your daughter,’ Mrs French said and Nelly stared at her with a frown.

  ‘News about my Evie? What’s that then?’

  ‘She’s coming back here to live, isn’t she? Timothy is to be the new Headmaster of the school.’

  ‘No one told me.’ Nelly frowned, then added cheerfully, ‘I expect Evie’s plannin’ a surprise. I won’t let on I knows. Don’t want to spoil it. Great one for surprises, my Evie.’

  ‘They will be living in the house where Fay now lives. She’ll be married by then of course.’

  ‘Fancy. My Evie near enough to call in for a chat. Nice that’ll be. An’ little Oliver. Eight ’e is now, same age as Amy’s Margaret. I ain’t seen ’im fer months. Won’t know me of course. But—’ she laughed her loud laugh, ‘but ’e soon will, eh?’

  Nelly turned up the front of the apron that Mrs French insisted she wore and fixed it with a pin high enough to stay clean. With a bucket of soapy water she scrubbed the tiles on the kitchen floor, singing loudly as she thought of Evie coming back. As she was putting on her coat to leave, Mrs French said, ‘Nelly, that coat, isn’t it a bit large? I have one here I was given to see if I could find it a home. It would probably fit you far better.’ She brought out a dark grey coat and held it for Nelly to try. Nelly fingered the cloth and sighed.

  ‘Lovely that is, dearie. Good bit of cloth. Sure you don’t want it? If someone gave it yer…’

  ‘It was given to me to pass on to someone who needed it,’ Mrs French smiled. ‘Take it. Evie will be pleased to see you looking smart and’ – she hesitated over the word “tidy” and said instead, ‘warm’.

  ‘Ta. But I don’t think I’ll wear it ’ome, it’s rainin’ and besides, I’m goin’ to buy some fish an’ chips and that Milly Toogood’s daughter would charge me double if I was dressed posh!’ Her crooked teeth showed and her laughter filled the kitchen.

  When she was outside the back gate and out of sight, Nelly took off her mac and used it to protect the coat she had been given, and with the black umbrella saving her from most of the downpour, she went past the bottom of her lane and over the road to the fish and chip shop opposite the school. She looked along the road, past the school yard, past the church where Fay and Johnny were to marry and beyond, to the semi-detached houses. The one in which Fay lived was the last in the row and she could see Fay’s car outside on the verge.

  So Evie and Tim and young Oliver were going to live there. She hoped they could manage to live that close and manage not to quarrel too often. She loved them all, ‘but,’ she muttered, ‘my Evie’s damned ’ard work. Always was.’ She turned and went in to queue for her cod and chips.

  The day was so dark, that with the news of Evie’s return, a pall of gloom settled on the cottage. The fire would not burn brightly and now and again the smoke blew back and covered the mantelpiece with its dust and smell. Nelly was restless. The door was closed, which was unusual. She read the paper with which her meal had been wrapped, screwing up her eyes in the poor light, unwilling to light her oil lamp so early. She screwed up the greasy paper and threw it onto the fire, enjoying its brief flame, then wandered upstairs.

  She took up the grey coat and spread it on the bed to admire, then from under the bed, she dragged a large suitcase. Inside it was another coat, of maroon wool, decorated with a fur collar and with pockets trimmed to match. She unpacked it and put it with the grey one. The suitcase also included some good quality winter dresses. All were too small for her.

  ‘Think I’ll go into town soon,’ she said aloud. ‘Got a nice lot of stuff to sell. Clothes rations might be long forgotten, but there’s still a demand for good stuff a bit cheap.’

  She re-packed the clothes and stood the suitcases ready for carrying. Her face was sad as she went back down the dark stairs. With Evie coming back she knew she would be in need of a cheering day out once in a while. Perhaps she would save the clothes, which would earn enough to buy a bite of food and a few drinks, for a day when Evie upset her. That day would not be long in coming. She put on her plastic mac again. ‘Come on, boys; time for another walk.’

  The rain obliterated most of the view, but as she went through the trees, she saw the man again. He was coming away from the castle and Nelly wondered if he was sleeping rough. She called to him
, but apart from a brief wave of his left hand, he did not reply. When the weather was better she would look around the ruin, she decided.

  She didn’t go into the trees but down the road to the village. Opposite Amy’s shop in the middle of the row of cottages, she called to see Johnny Cartwright’s mother. Nice to pass an hour of the gloomy day in chatter.

  Netta Cartwright was small; less than five feet tall and she was round and rosy. Her hair had once been dark but was now perfectly white and was complemented by her pink complexion. Her eyes were dark brown but unlike Nelly’s which darted curiously here and there, Netta’s were calm and gentle. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper and it seemed impossible, Nelly thought, to imagine her roused to anger.

  ‘I’m so glad you called,’ Netta said, when the two women were settled with cups of tea. ‘Johnny and I have offered to collect for the children’s Coronation Party and it’s rather more work than we imagined. Would you be willing to help?’

  ‘Course I will, dearie. When d’you want me to start?’

  ‘There’s all the council estate. Thought they’d do their own party we did, but the thought of having a party in the castle has gripped the children and they won’t settle for anything else.’

  ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘We try to go out every Friday, that being the day when we’re most likely to get the money,’ Netta blushed as she reminded Nelly that some of the local people found it difficult to manage. ‘What we don’t manage, we do on Saturday mornings. All right with you?’

  They discussed times and arrangements for a while and as Nelly stood up to leave, Johnny arrived. He went at once to the neatly set table with its embroidered cloth and helped himself to one of the small cakes Netta had made.

  ‘Hello, Nelly. Glad you’ve left some cake for me!’ He divided a second cake and fed it to the two dogs, and patted his mother on the shoulder. ‘Great cook, my Mam. I hope Fay looks after me as well.’

  ‘She will. Lucky boy you are,’ Netta chuckled.

  Nelly smiled and was warmed by the affection in the room. If only she and Evie could get on as well, she sighed. Johnny and his mother were alike in appearance, Johnny being only slightly taller. His hair was medium brown and so straight it refused to even bend over his head, but stuck out at the side, unwilling to conform. He was very young-looking. The moustache he had grown to try to compensate, looked odd on him; like a boy dressing up as a man. Yet he was mature in every other way, and ready to take on the responsibilities of marriage and a family. Nelly knew he had loved Fay for a long time and was overjoyed when she had finally accepted him.

  At first, Netta had been doubtful about the couple, their upbringing had been so different. Fay’s family had been wealthy compared to the Cartwright’s and it showed in more than the expensive clothes Fay wore, and the large house she had lived in. She knew Johnny would change as he and Fay shared their lives.

  Nelly looked out of the door as she started to leave and groaned at the sight of the steady rain. ‘I hope this is going to clear for your weddin’, young Johnny,’ she said. ‘Though it doesn’t really matter what the weather does on yer weddin’ day. You’ll only see sunshine, won’t yer?’

  ‘Sunshine all the way, Nelly,’ he said.

  Nelly crossed her fingers.

  * * *

  Fay had felt a need to include Mrs French in her wedding arrangements and had gone to seek her advice about the flowers. It was unnecessary and both women knew it. And both felt the strangeness, even after eight years, of talking about a wedding which did not include Alan.

  Fay knew Mrs French had appreciated the gesture and she kissed her as she left, holding her book of wedding details, to go home. It was raining and she bent over against the rain in the futile attempt to make it less of a nuisance.

  She lifted her head now and again, and saw someone coming down Nelly’s lane. The man stopped when he saw her and she passed him and then glanced back. He was following, but again stopped when she looked back. She stood near the school yard and watched him cross the road and look in the window of Amy’s shop, then at the price list on the steamed up windows of the fish and chip shop.

  She walked home and put the key into her front door, then, instead of stepping inside, returned to the gate and looked for the man. He had re-crossed the road and was passing her gate. Startled by the unexpected encounter, he looked towards her and at once pulled his scarf tighter about his face.

  But he was not fast enough. In the gloom of the rainy evening, eyes that were dark and intense met hers. Her head spun, the strength went from her legs as muscles turned to liquid.

  ‘Alan!’ she gasped, before she fainted.

  When she opened her eyes she was alone, but she had been laid carefully down in the porch, with the scarf the man had been wearing, folded and placed as a pillow beneath her head. A car passed along the road, somewhere a rook cawed its indifference, and rain continued to patter insistently on the gravel path. She felt as if she had newly woken from a dream. Had she dreamt it? Had she fallen, knocked her head and slept? Alan often filled her dreams, was this simply another?

  She slowly rose and taking the scarf, pressed it to her face. The scent of him was strong, enhanced by the moisture.

  * * *

  Unseen by her, the man watched from the hedge which separated her garden from the field. Satisfied she was all right, he walked up the field and into the woods, heading for the castle ruin.

  It was soon to be her wedding day, yet all Fay felt at that moment was a cold dread. She was certain it had been Alan she had seen. But if it were him, where had he been? Why hadn’t he walked up to the door, knocked and walked in? Why was he wandering around the village in the rain, waiting for a glimpse of her? For surely he was Nelly’s mysterious and furtive prowler?

  Twice she put on her coat and picked up her car keys, intending to go back to Mrs French. If Alan were alive, she obviously must be told. But each time she resisted, and threw off the coat. What could she say to her? ‘Your son is alive but chooses not to see either of us?’ Mrs French would think her insane. Perhaps she was. That was a more likely explanation.

  For weeks she had dreamed of Alan and, as her wedding to Johnny drew closer, the dreams became more real. They were filled with longing for him, so intense at times that she dreaded to go to bed and face another lonely night of frustration and despair. That must be the truth. She was still grieving for Alan. Johnny’s loving was not enough to kill that passion.

  She remembered clearly the days after they had been told he was ‘Missing, presumed killed’. She had seen him everywhere. In bus queues, in the cinema, in shops and on every street in every town. The approach of her wedding day, when she would be admitting fully that he was gone for ever, had made those days return. Half convinced, she ran a bath and sank into it.

  In a few days she would promise to love, honour and obey Johnny. He loved her, and his love would lay Alan’s ghost for ever. She began to run over the time-table for the wedding morning in her mind, forcing herself to feel the excitement and importance that was every bride’s right.

  Chapter Three

  On the morning of Fay and Johnny’s wedding, Nelly went up to the castle again. She saw a man sitting on a stone that had fallen from the ancient walls, oblivious to the raw cold of the early morning. She saw he was dressed as before, in the overlong brown coat that was too large for his thin frame; the collar was turned up but the scarf was different. In profile she could see little of his features but what she did see made her want to cry. The right side of it was horribly distorted by a scar.

  He seemed unaware of her, although she had not walked with any intention of keeping her presence a secret. But now, she moved as carefully as she could around the fallen rocks to where she could see him from the opposite side. She screwed up her eyes and focused on him, then put both hands to her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to erupt. ‘Alan French,’ she whispered in disbelief. ‘Bloody ’ell. What do
I do now?’

  She backed away from him, her heart racing and her mind wrestling with the dilemma. She had seen him several times over a period of weeks, and Mrs French had said nothing. So he had not gone home, but instead had lived up here, far from the village, afraid, she guessed, to show his poor face. Unable to go home without one more look to convince herself it really was Alan, back from the dead, she again moved towards him. He appeared not to have heard her, lost in some sad thoughts of his own, and as she came in sight of him, he stood, and she saw that his cheeks glistened with tears. He walked away from the castle, heading for the fields above Fay’s house.

  ‘Gawd ’elp us,’ Nelly sighed, ‘an’ today’s Fay and Johnny’s weddin’.’

  She couldn’t go home. After he had disappeared from sight she went to where he had been sitting, and from there into the old castle. In the kitchens she found a rough bed and several overcoats, which had presumably been used as blankets. Sadly, she picked one up, thinking of the young man who had a comfortable home only minutes away but who was unable to go there.

  What should she do? Persuade him to see his mother who would surely not be so horrified by his injuries that she wouldn’t welcome him back with joy? And Fay. What about her? Would she regret marrying Johnny if, soon after, Alan, her first love, turned up? Nelly sat on a stone and shivered, partly from the cold and partly from the shock and the responsibility of what she had discovered.

  She sat for a long time, then decided to see the vicar. Yes, he was the one. He’d know what to do. She walked back to the cottage, and the welcome from the dogs then, putting on her old navy coat, set off for the vicarage.

  When she told the Reverend Barclay Bevan, he laughed and told her not to worry.

  ‘You must have been mistaken, Nelly. Especially if the young man was as badly scarred as you say. Leave it with me. I’ll go up there and talk to this young man, help him if I can. So many sad cases since the war; the reception centres for these wandering, unhappy men are full night after night you know. Now go home, and forget it. Leave it all to me.’