‘He was a pharmacist.’
‘Three times I’ve called, asking if Fay would like to join our sewing bee, to make things for charity, but she’s never in. When she does her housework and cooking I can’t think. Probably leaves it all to Netta. She’s soft enough to let her get away with it.’
‘I think I’ll go outside to see what’s happening,’ Mrs French said. ‘Coming, Evelyn?’
The two women went out into the sun, each sighing relief at the temporary escape from Prue Beynon’s tongue.
* * *
At two o’clock Timothy Chartridge blew his whistle and voices called for entrants for the first race. With the assistance of Harry Beynon and Bert Roberts, Timothy managed to get the children lined up in ages, and, as each race was won, to hand the winners a rosette made by Prue’s sewing bee, and a book about the royal family.
Nelly sprawled on the grass, having found a place near the finishing line, and laughed uproariously at the antics of the sackrace, and the three-legged race. When entrants were invited for the adults’ races, she at once volunteered.
‘Stay there; won’t be long,’ she called to Oliver, and sticking a lump of home-made toffee in his hand, she hurried to the starting post.
Her shoes were loose, the laces having been taken out as her feet grew hot and tired. She tripped several times and finally fell, near the finish and rolled in the now dusty grass. She made the most of the humour of the situation and relished the laughter that rang out as she exposed her pink bloomers, which reached her fat knees.
Evie, who had looked to see the cause of the laughter, turned away in disgust. Mrs French patted her arm.
‘Don’t be upset, dear. Nelly’s a character and much loved and tolerated. You won’t change her. No one thinks the worse of you because of her. Laugh with the rest if you can, it’s far the best way to deal with it.’
‘Would you find it easy to laugh if it was your mother sprawled there attracting such remarks?’ Evie said bitterly. ‘And as for not changing things. I wouldn’t be too sure of that!’
More laughter rang out and Evie was persuaded to look. To her relief it was not Nelly this time. Her mother was not the only one to show more than she should that day.
Amy had closed the shop and had arrived at the field intending to stroll around and talk to a few people, then go home again. She was in no mood to enjoy herself although none would have guessed it.
She had dressed unsuitably in a new turquoise outfit with a straight, mid-calf length skirt and a short jacket; tight at the waist and full at the back in a sort of bustle. Seeing Nelly enjoying herself, she lifted her skirt high above her knees so she could run, and came down the field after the rest of the competitors, showing the tops of her nylons and the pink straps of her suspenders. She tripped over Nelly’s sprawled feet and collapsed, laughing, beside her.
She and Nelly helped each other up and they walked back to the start, still laughing. Nelly’s crooked teeth were well displayed, and Amy’s long earrings sparkled and her blonde hair shimmered as she shook her head to free it of the dried grass that had found its way among the curls. The upswept style fell about her neck.
‘I’d have worn something more suitable if I’d known I was part of the cabaret!’ Amy laughed.
‘Borrowed a pair of mine, would yer?’
Nelly pushed her way back to where Oliver waited, acknowledging the pats on her shoulders with a wide grin.
* * *
While the tables were being filled with food and drinks, the children were organised into a group for singing. There was a natural amphitheatre against the mound below the castle walls, and it was here that Timothy gathered the choir. The piano was standing in the shade of a tree, and the vicar was strumming a few chords to set the mood.
Barclay Bevan was dressed in black, but he had discarded his surplice and wore only black trousers and a black shirt with the white dog collar. He was very hot and envied the children running about so free from the restrictions of his formal clothes. His face shone redly and his fingers threatened to slip on the keys. As Timothy raised his arms to gather the children for their first song, he quickly wiped his hands on his plump thighs, poised his fingers above the keys, raised his eyes to Timothy and with a benign expression, awaited his instructions.
The rest of the throng sat where they could, mothers waving to their offspring, friends shouting and keeping places for each other, impatient for the singing to begin. Nelly watched as Oliver left her to take his place near his father. He looked rather pale and Nelly thought he was unhappy performing, even as one of a crowd. She didn’t wave.
Timothy’s voice swelled from its usual whisper as he addressed the children. His features lost their habitual frown and he became animated, more alive. His job was his life; there was little room in his heart for anything else.
This day of celebration was acceptable as a useful addition to the school year. Many lessons had been built around the Coronation and the fete day would be the basis of many more. Timothy saw everything through the eyes of a teacher. His son was just another pupil and not a very bright one at that.
After a few popular choruses to settle the children, Margaret Prichard, Amy’s eight-year-old daughter, sang a solo. Her pure young voice made even the liveliest child fall silent. Nelly gulped at a lump in her throat, and was not the only one to wipe away a tear of pleasure. Margaret wore a long, pale green dress and she swung gently from side to side as she sang. Her red hair was long, and had been released from the ribbons which had held it in plaits, to fall about her shoulders like a shawl of gold.
* * *
While the children ate sandwiches, crisps and jellies and cakes, the adults attended them, while hoping there would be something left for themselves. Nelly wandered around, enjoying the crowd and full of a feeling of excitement. She saw Johnny and the vicar struggling up the field with the tea urn.
‘I ain’t seen Fay yet? She comin’?’ she shouted.
‘When she’s finished work. She always has a few calls on a Saturday morning,’ Johnny explained.
The queue for tea was long and Nelly thought she would go home and make her own. She was just pushing through the hedge at the edge of the lane when she saw the stranger.
In spite of the day being sunny and warm, he was wearing a coat, with the collar turned up around his face. He was walking away from her, his limp very pronounced, his head bent down as if to hide his face. Nelly followed him.
The noise from the castle was loud, even at this distance. Music from Tim’s gramophone plus the chatter and shrieks from the children. He did not look back, but headed for the trees not far from the cottage. Nelly moved from tree to tree, a bubble of excitement rising as she imagined herself playing detective. Then her mood fell to dismay. Ahead of them she saw a solitary figure. ‘Fay,’ she whispered.
Standing out of sight behind a hawthorn, she watched anxiously as the two people met. The man looked at Fay, then began to run away from her. Fay followed and the two figures were swallowed up in the greenery.
Nelly went to the cottage to make her cup of tea, but grew cold as she sat, staring up the garden to the wood, wondering what would happen next. That withered posy in red, white and blue, the colours of today. Had it been a message for Fay and Alan to meet?
* * *
Fay called Alan’s name and begged him to stop. Why was he running? His posy had told her he would be here and she had been longing for the hours to pass. He stumbled on a tree root and she lessened the gap between them. ‘Alan. Please wait,’ she begged. But whatever his intentions for the day had been, something had changed his mind. He paused at the edge of the stream where it had widened, and giving a brief glance back, he jumped over, scrambling as he missed the further bank, then he managed to gain the firm ground and soon disappeared among the trees. Fay called his name for an age, then slowly walked to the castle grounds.
* * *
Nelly walked back to the field and looked for Oliver. Just as they met up, a
nd he began to tell her of what he had been doing since she left him, music blared out and Timothy announced a surprise item. He pointed towards the highest part of the old walls, and as the record was hushed, singing could be heard. In procession, walking down between the ruined stonework, came a band of minstrels in mediaeval costumes. They carried a few instruments, including guitars and accordians, which were hardly in keeping with the costumes but no one seemed to care. They all wore masks.
Using the ancient ramparts for a stage they sang and played a number of songs, and even did a simple dance. People in the audience that had quickly gathered listened, watched, and tried to recognise the people behind the disguise.
‘Harry Beynon,’ Nelly pointed. ‘That’s easy, ’im bein’ so tall. An’ Emlyn and Gwen Parry. Megan, Bronwen and Sian from next door to you, Ollie. Coo, ain’t that Mrs French? Fancy! And that’s young Johnny. I wonder where Fay is!’
‘Fay wouldn’t join him, more’s the pity,’ Netta Cartwright said. ‘It’s nice to do things together sometimes.’
Nelly glanced at her friend, aware of a hint of dismay in the gently spoken words.
‘Don’t want to live in each other’s pockets, they don’t. Not kids today.’
‘No, they say they want more variety in their lives.’ Still the lack of conviction.
‘Seen Fay ’ave yer?’ Nelly asked. ‘Thought I saw ’er a few minutes ago. Johnny said she’s comin’ later. Work ’as to come first.’
‘I’m just going to the kitchens; they might have seen her. I do hope she doesn’t miss all the excitement.’
Nelly shook her head. ‘No fear of that,’ she said emphatically. Netta gave Oliver a few pence for ice-cream and left them.
Nelly stood up and looked around for Fay’s blonde head. Fay was tall, several inches taller than Johnny, and she should be easy to see, if she were here.
The minstrels finished their singing and came down to find a partner each to start the dancing. Nelly saw Fay and Johnny as people moved to the area near the gramophone and began to dance. Johnny was obviously trying to comfort his wife, pressing a handkerchief to her face to wipe away her tears. Nelly did nothing. Best to let them sort it out themselves, although she longed to go and invite them to go to the cottage and talk in private.
‘There seems to be trouble within the happy throng.’ A voice at her side made Nelly jump with guilt at having been caught watching the couple in a private moment.
‘’Ello, Mrs French, dearie. ‘Avin’ a good time are yer? Wasn’t it you singin’ with them minstrels? Fancy you dressin’ up an’ all!’
‘It was my idea. We had the costumes from when Richard and I ran a concert party during the war. I thought it would be fun.’
‘It was that all right. Smashin’. Enjoyin’ it are yer?’
‘Very much. But not everyone is, it seems.’ She gestured to Fay and Johnny.
‘Early days yet. There’s always a bit of sortin’ to do when you’re newly married, ain’t there?’
‘Perhaps. Although I don’t remember having such problems. Nelly – she can’t be still grieving for my son, can she? I know that sounds silly, but she has visited me quite a lot lately.’
‘It’s eight years now since he – went missin’. Time to forget I’d ’ave thought. For a young girl I mean, not fer a mother of course,’ she added quickly.
Mrs French patted Nelly’s arm affectionately. ‘I know what you mean.’ She smiled at the rosy-cheeked woman and asked, ‘Your marriage wasn’t a very long one, was it? You never talk about… See? I don’t even know your husband’s name.’
‘Norman,’ Nelly supplied. ‘Norman Birkett.’
‘Birkett? But I thought – I’ve always called you Nelly Luke.’
‘’E passed on so quick after we was wed, it never stuck, the new name I mean. Nelly Luke I’ve stayed.’
Mrs French saw a momentary flash of unease in Nelly’s eyes. She had upset her by reminding her of her loneliness perhaps.
Then Nelly added, ‘Never did feel like no Mrs Norman Birkett. Nelly Luke people calls me.’ Again that shifty, sideways glance.
Monica French felt embarrassment flood her face. Nelly had never been married! Nelly now looked completely unconcerned, waving at Milly Toogood who was aiming balls at the old china on the Frustration stall. Monica hurriedly changed the subject.
‘Look, Nelly; isn’t that Harry Beynon, still in his mask? He seems to be heading this way. Perhaps he’s going to ask you to dance.’
Harry carried a glass of beer and beneath his mask, his lips were open in a smile.
‘Hello, Monica. Here, Nelly, this is for you, compliments of Johnny.’ He handed Nelly the foaming glass. ‘Sorry I haven’t anything for you,’ he smiled at Monica. ‘There’s only beer and I didn’t think you’d want that.’
‘No, no, don’t worry. I rarely drink,’ laughed Mrs French, ‘but I shall enjoy watching Nelly drink hers.’
Harry didn’t stay, but went back to where the older people were dancing to records played by Timothy.
‘’Andsome devil, ain’t ’e?’ Nelly said. ‘With that mask, ’e looks like some pirate. Flashin’ eyes and long ’air down ’is back – to make up for the bald bit on top I expect. It’s a wonder Prue don’t make ’im ’ave it cut though. That fussy about neatness she is. ‘Er’s looks like it’s been glued down.’ She laughed loudly and Mrs French looked around, hoping no one had overheard, chuckling, in spite of disapproving of Nelly’s outspokenness.
Mrs French left her then to go and find some friends. Nelly stood happily watching the dancers and drinking her beer. She saw Harry go to Amy, and from the gestures, guessed he was asking her to dance with him. Amy refused and pushed him angrily away. He laughed, and with an arm around her shoulders, half lifted her towards the rest of the dancers.
They danced together, but even from a distance, Nelly could see they were quarrelling. She wondered if there had been a disagreement about how much the work on the shop had cost, but the disagreement didn’t look like a business problem. More like lovers, she thought with a jolt.
Fay and Johnny were dancing, their heads together, hers bent slightly to compensate for her extra inches. They looked like lovers too, Nelly thought with a relieved sigh. Perhaps Fay had accepted that Johnny was her love. Instinctively she glanced towards the edge of the trees, now in shadow as the day was ending. She wondered with a shiver if the stranger, whether he be Alan or not, was watching, and she moved further into the crowd.
Later, Johnny brought her another beer. ‘None for sale,’ he explained. ‘Just some brought for the boys. One for you though, even if you aren’t one of the boys, eh?’
‘Ta ever so.’ She began drinking at once. ‘Enjoyin’ yerselves, are yer? You an’ Fay?’
‘It’s great fun. We ought to do it more often. Daft really, waiting for the Queen to give us an excuse. Plenty of other ideas I’m sure, if we set about it.’
‘What about my birthday for a start?’ she laughed. ‘Go on you, back to that wife of yours.’
Later still, when she had returned the glasses to the kitchens, Phil Davies gave her a drink, and so did Timothy, much to her surprise, although he added a warning not to mention it to Evelyn.
‘Where’s Oliver?’ Nelly wanted to know. ‘Ain’t seen ’im for a while.’
‘Try the swings. They’re free now it’s almost dark. He was there with some of his school friends when I saw him last.’
Nelly pushed her way through the laughing crowds, her gait a little unsteady, to the swings. As she came in sight of Evie and Prue, she hesitated, and stumbled. At once, Prue said loudly, ‘Here’s your mother, Evelyn dear, in need of some help again by the look of her.’
‘Old cow,’ Nelly muttered, and trying to walk upright and confident, succeeded in appearing more drunk than she actually was.
‘’Ere, Ollie, ’ave a sweet.’ She pulled out from her pocket a bag of sweets and offered the bag to Oliver, who took one quickly, before Evie could prevent him, and po
pped it into his mouth.
‘He’s had more than enough for one day. And so have you!’ Evie said. ‘Go home, Mother. Go home!’
‘No fear. I ain’t missin’ any of this!’
A bonfire was lit and in its glow, Nelly beamed with pleasure at the assorted faces. Children, red and grubby, many falling asleep in their mothers’ arms, on their fathers’ shoulders, or sprawled in untidy heaps on the grass. Evie’s face showed anger. Oliver’s was anxious and pale. Prue, she noticed curiously, was intently staring into the crowd, oblivious to everything except the object of her gaze. Nelly moved slightly to see what was taking Prue’s attention, making her eyes stare so concentratedly. Harry, she saw, was dancing with Amy, who still looked to be an unwilling partner.
Nelly glanced back at Prue, the coldness of her stare quite alarming. ‘’Ere, Evie, ’old this.’ She pressed her empty glass into Evie’s hand and went to where the dancers were performing a slow waltz. Pushing Amy aside, she said loudly, ‘What about a dance fer me then, eh?’
Amy ran off and after staring after her for a moment, Harry took Nelly in his arms and began dancing. ‘Blimey, I only comes up to yer chest!’ she exclaimed.
‘Pity it’s not the other way around!’ Harry laughed. He looked down at her for a moment, surprised at the lightness of her steps. ‘Why did you suddenly want to dance with me, Nelly?’
‘Your Prue didn’t like it – you an’ Amy. It ain’t my business, but this ain’t the place to mend quarrels.’
Harry laughed again. ‘You don’t miss much do you, Nelly Luke?’
‘Not if I can ’elp it! Got another beer, ’ave yer? Besides,’ she went on, ‘I don’t like your missus. Now if it was my Mrs French or someone like that…’
With a replenished glass, Nelly went back to Evie. ‘Where’s Ollie?’ she asked.
A Welcome in the Valley Page 10
