‘Oliver,’ Evie said with feeling, ‘is being sick.’
The crowds were thinning. People, especially those with small children, were filtering home. There were still a few dancers and small huddles of people, sitting chatting, and kissing, and talking love talk among the shadows. Occasionally laughter rang out, and a few screams as teasing continued among the young and the not so young. Young Margaret stood near the piano staring at the keys as if wanting to try and pick out a tune. But she didn’t touch it, just looked.
Fay saw Mrs French standing alone, and knew she must talk to her now, while she had the nerve. Tomorrow would be harder.
‘Mrs French, I know this will be a shock, but he’s alive. Alan is alive. I’ve seen him. He’s here, now.’ The words came out jerkily and unconvincing.
For a moment Mrs French stared at the girl as if she were seeing a ghost. ‘Fay, dear. What are you saying? Is this a joke?’
‘Alan is not dead.’
Monica stared around her, trying to see through the encroaching darkness, searching for his face among the crowd. Her son alive? After eight years? ‘Where is he?’ she asked with a choking cry. ‘Where?’
Johnny ran up and looked angrily at Fay. ‘Fay. You promised.’
‘I know I did, Johnny, but she has a right to know. She’s his mother.’
Tears glistened in Mrs French’s eyes and she asked Johnny shakily, ‘What has happened, Johnny?’
‘Fay thinks she has seen Alan.’
‘I have! He left me a message!’
Johnny looked at Mrs French and shook his head sadly.
‘Fay!’ the older woman said. ‘How could you upset me so? It’s wicked to say such a thing. Wicked.’ She touched her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘If he were alive he would have come home.’
Fay looked from one to the other. ‘Alan is alive I tell you. Not dead. Wandering around, afraid to come home.’ She gave a short scream of frustration and ran off. Johnny hesitated, wondering if he should leave Mrs French after such a shock.
‘Go after her, Johnny,’ she said. ‘She needs you.’
‘What can I say to her?’ he asked. ‘How can I compete with a ghost?’
Harry danced with his wife and Amy danced with Freddy. Then they changed partners, but Amy pulled away from Harry and accepted a dance from a man who was vaguely familiar.
‘Remember me?’ he said.
Amy frowned then remembered. ‘You’re the man who delivers to the shop.’
‘That’s me; Victor Honeyman. Look different without my brown overalls, do I?’
Harry stood watching, beside Prue.
‘Time they stopped,’ Prue said. ‘People want to pack up and go home. It’s been a long day for those who did all the work. Selfish, some people.’
‘Amy’s enjoying herself. She doesn’t get out much, what with the shop and the kids.’
They looked at Amy who was dancing as enthusiastically as when she began, hours ago. When she didn’t have a partner she danced alone, her jewellery flashing, her face flushed and full of excitement.
Amy sensed that the fun of the occasion now came from her. Partners were drawn to her like a magnet. Victor danced time and again, unwilling to leave her for a moment. The mood had emanated from her need to expend energy and she knew that when she stopped the mood would change and everyone would go home. She reached into her reserve and went on, pulling others into her energy source, as wildly excited as herself.
Timothy put on a slow waltz and announced that it was the last record.
‘Dance, Prue?’ Harry said.
She turned to face him without verbal agreement, and they joined the others in the brief finale.
‘I’ll be a bit late,’ Harry said as they walked away from the music. ‘I’ve got to make sure my wooden planks are safely stacked away. We’re leaving the piano until tomorrow. I’ve arranged with some of the boys to come about ten o’clock.’
‘I’ll go with Mrs French then.’ She walked off without another word, unable to show her pleasure at his asking her to dance, and his attentiveness during the latter part of the evening. She wondered if, tonight, she might not sleep alone.
* * *
The last of the crowd dispersed, leaving only a few men to gather up the remaining furniture. Most had been taken back to the church hall earlier in the evening and the cups and plates were stacked back in their accustomed places in the wooden boxes beside the trestle tables and folding chairs.
Harry’s lorry was half-filled with the stacked chairs, and as Harry was piling more with the rest he saw two figures waiting beside the ashes of the bonfire. ‘Freddy? Margaret?’ he called. ‘Want a lift home on the lorry?’
‘Yes please,’ Margaret said. She ran and lifted up her arms to him to be helped up. ‘Wait for Mammy, she’s talking to someone. She won’t be long though.’
Harry lifted her up into the cab and gestured to Freddy to help him finish loading the last of the wood and the remaining chairs.
‘Thought any more about working for me?’ Harry asked the boy.
‘Yes. I’d like to, Uncle Harry, but Mam isn’t too sure. She wants me to stay on a bit, get a few exams.’ He threw some planks easily onto the lorry. ‘Perhaps you can talk her round for me? I’d rather start work see, get a bit of money. Fed up with school, I am.’
‘Go and call your mother, boy, I’ll perhaps have a word with her. Now it’s time for us all to go home.’
With Freddy on the back of the lorry and Margaret inside the cab, Harry knew Amy could hardly refuse to ride with him. He said nothing as he helped her up beside him, and she took Margaret on her knee and they went down the lane past Nelly’s cottage in silence.
The field settled back into its customary silence, but it was a long time before the last light went out in the village. Nelly’s oil-lamp flickered and went out as she slept in the big armchair, too tired to undress and go to bed.
In the flattened grass around the castle, wind disturbed the rubbish, and swayed the trees. The movement increased as a man stepped out of the trees and wandered around the site. In the amphitheatre where the children had sung the piano stood, covered by sacks and a tarpaulin.
Quietly the covers were lifted. The figure stretched out his left hand and, with a foot pressing the soft pedal, began to play. The ghostly music drifted through the trees and filled the air with plantive melodies until dawn rose and the man closed the lid and walked away.
Chapter Eight
Nelly was chopping wood in the garden when Oliver called some days after the party. She was talking to herself, and he hesitated at the gate, intending to go away if she was not alone.
‘Come out of it, you stupid axe,’ Nelly was grumbling. ‘What’s wrong with this wood today, eh Bobby?’ The dog sniffed her face, his long tail wagging with pleasure at being noticed, and Spotty strolled over, hoping to be included. ‘Just get this lot in the oven to warm, then we’ll go up the castle field to see what’s left, shall we?’
As she turned to push the door wider, the dogs began to bark; soft, welcoming barks and she looked up the path to the gate. ‘Someone comin’? Blimey they’re early. Thought everyone’d be sleepin’ except me!’
‘Gran? Hi, it’s me!’
‘’Ello me,’ Nelly chuckled, ‘thought it was Oliver for a minute.’
‘Have you got any toffee left, Gran?’ Oliver asked as he pushed open the stiff gate. He pulled a face as it scraped across the ash path.
‘’Course I ’ave. Got some comics too, but don’t tell yer mother.’
Oliver picked up an armful of sticks and carried them to the door. He struggled to open it wider so he could get in with his arms full. ‘This door’s stuck again, Gran.’
‘I’ll do it. Stand back, Ollie. You ’ave to give it a right good kick.’ She lunged at the door with her foot and the door scraped back across the flagstones. Nelly gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Matches the gate it does. I like things to match,’ she laughed.
Oliver picked u
p the comic and turned the pages. ‘Will you help me read it, Gran?’
‘Just let me get my sticks in the oven. There. Now I’ll get us a drink and we’ll sit an’ enjoy ourselves. Find the page why don’t yer?’
‘Gran, how can W-H-E-N spell when? Reading doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Now yer askin’, young Ollie. I don’t suppose anyone knows the real answer. What you ’ave to do is learn it. Remember it. Then, after a while you forgets ’ow daft it is. You second name’s another daft word. Malcolm, ain’t it? You learnt to write an’ say that, didn’t you? Well, there’s nothin’ stoppin’ you learnin’ a few more daft words.’
‘It’s an awful lot of work.’
‘Not fer a clever boy like you it ain’t.’
‘I’m not clever. I’m slow. Dad says that.’
‘An’ ’im an headmaster? Should know better ’e should!’
‘Do you want any messages run, Gran? After school I mean, not now, I have to go soon.’
Nelly sat down and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Ah – um – yes. You can tell the butler ’e can ’ave the day off an’ tell cook we’ll want dinner at eight.’
They both laughed at the silly joke then settled down to share the delights of the comic.
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything?’ he asked later, as he set off home.
‘No thanks, dearie, only a paper. I’ll take the dogs and see if Amy’s got one left. I want to read all about the arrangements for the Coronation. I’ll hear it on the radio down with Netta Cartwright, but it ain’t the same as pictures.’
‘Why don’t you come and watch it on our television? Mother did invite you.’
‘Don’t like spendin’ too much time with yer mum, specially not since the party. Told me off she did for you bein’ sick. We always did end up arguin’. I’d only spoil the day for yer. She’s me only daughter but we ain’t got much in common. ’Ere, there is somethin’ you can do for me Ollie. ’Elp me pick an ’orse fer the Derby.’
‘Mr Evans the caretaker says this is the year for Gordon Richards to win.’
‘Well, ’e might be right, but I think I’ll go through the runners in my usual educated way, with a pin.’ She laughed, showing her crooked teeth in a way that Oliver had come to enjoy.
‘Will you ’elp then, or not?’ She pushed the paper, folded to the correct page, closer to him. ‘Last night’s this is; gives all the stuff we need to know.’
‘You haven’t lost your glasses again, have you, Gran?’ Oliver sounded anxious. He was worried that Nelly was getting forgetful; his mother had once said this was a ‘bad sign’.
‘’Course I ain’t! Just can’t think where I put ’em. Here, look at the names and read ’em out, will yer?’
‘It says something about the Queen’s horse.’ He began to struggle with the words, and Nelly waited patiently then said, ‘Don’t bother about every word, Ollie, just go through an’ see what it’s about.’ She hummed softly to herself as he studied the paper.
‘What’s rumour?’
‘That’s an easy one. You must ’ave ’eard plenty of rumours about me since you was back. Rumour says I’m a dirty, useless old drunk.’
‘Rumours aren’t true then?’
‘That’s right. They’re what some people want to believe. Started by jealous people, spiteful people. Go on, what does it say?’
Oliver pointed at the words and read, ‘There’s a rumour that the queen’s horse Au…’
‘Aureole,’ Nelly supplied.
‘That Aureole is lame.’
‘Shame. Be nice fer ’er to win in the same week she’s crowned.’
‘Why do you say, shame? If it’s only a rumour…’
‘Shall I back it then?’
‘What about Pinza? That’s Gordon Richard’s mount.’
‘’E’s tried twenty-seven times. Why should the twenty-eighth be any different?’ She gave a loud burp.
‘There’s a horse running called Windy?’ he grinned.
‘You cheeky young devil! Who’s ridin’ that then?’ After a careful study, Oliver announced that the horse was being riden by F. Barlow.
Nelly ruffled the boy’s hair and smiled. ‘You’re such a good boy, Ollie and such a ’elp now you can read.’ She shushed his protests. ‘Not perfect, I’ll give yer that. But you can read the paper and comics, and get the information we need an’ what’s readin’ for, if not that?’ She brushed the wood-dust from his coat and ushered him out. ‘Go on, or you’ll be late and that’ll mean a row fer both of us.’
Oliver stopped when he reached the gate. ‘Gran, why do they make rumours about you?’
‘Jealous of me an’ me ’andsome grandson.’
‘Mr Evans says you’re the happiest person he knows, so perhaps they are jealous.’
‘Don’t let it worry you, young Ollie. Let the chickens out before you go, will yer?’
She watched him walk past the garden towards home and shivered slightly at the thought that Evie might move away again and take Oliver with her. ‘Best thing what’s happened to me in years,’ she said to the dogs. Perhaps she could try to behave as Evie wanted; if she could only work out how. She prepared the hens’ mash, included some egg shells she had broken into small pieces after drying them in the oven over night, and put it in their feeding trough.
Still thinking of Oliver she pulled on her old navy coat, fastened the wide over-lap with a safety pin and set off for work. Her face was creased with laughter as she remembered Oliver mentioning the horse called Windy. Coming on a treat ’e was. If it meant a bit of cheek, well it was worth it.
* * *
Evie was looking out of the back window, across the neat garden and up into the field.
‘Where is he?’ she asked her husband. ‘He’ll be late for school. Fine that looks, the Head’s son late again. He loses track of time when he’s with her.’
The phone went and she spoke briefly for a few moments and replaced the receiver.
‘Who was that?’ Timothy asked.
‘Prue. Thought I might like to know that Nelly has just fallen over. Pulled both sides of a lamp post by the dogs.’ Timothy tried not to smile at the picture the words described. ‘Is she hurt?’
‘Nelly. Nelly. Nelly! That’s all I hear. When people stop to talk to me, it’s never to ask how we are, it’s always to give me the latest gossip about Nelly!’
‘You’re exaggerating, Evelyn. She isn’t that bad. If you refused to listen – she is your mother and entitled to your support.’
‘I don’t need reminding she’s my mother! Timothy, she was drinking again last night. Very unsteady on her feet apparently.’
‘Don’t let it worry you. There’s nothing we can do, just keep an eye on her, see she doesn’t come to any harm.’
Evie bit the skin around her thumb nail. ‘That’s exactly what I want to do. Instead of making excuses for her, I – I want you to persuade her to come and live here, with us.’
‘What? That’s ridiculous! You’d never stand it and neither would I! It’s impossible and you know it.’
‘There’s the back bedroom. I’d make sure she stayed in it except when she came out with me.’
‘She would never stand it.’
Evie looked away from him, out of the window. ‘When she became too unhappy, we could suggest she went into a home.’
‘Evelyn. That would be wrong for her.’
‘There’s a nice place just twenty miles from here and —’
‘She’d hate it. No!’
‘She needs proper looking after. She wanders the streets, hardly able to stand, let alone walk, and cook and look after herself.’
‘Evelyn, I love you but I won’t do this. You’d bring her here and hide her away. She’s unconventional I agree, but you’d kill her if you took away her away from that cottage of hers.’
Evie began to cry, still looking up across the field for a sight of Oliver, until the scene swam and she had to find a handkerchief to wipe away the tea
rs. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘I do, darling. But can’t you understand her a little?’
‘I saw Mrs French yesterday. She hasn’t seen the new dress I bought her. She’s probably sold it. Yes, that’s what she does. Sells clothes to buy drink. People think I don’t care.’
‘Nelly’s well known and well loved. No one would think the way she chooses to live is your fault. We’ve only been back a matter of weeks. She’s happy. I think she probably eats well; she grows a lot of her own food, keeps chickens that run in the wood, she heats the cottage on wood that she also has free. She lives like a —’
‘Like a gypsy!’ Evie ended bitterly. ‘A gypsy like my father!’
‘Forget it. It’s what you are now that matters.’
‘If you don’t let me do something about her, we’ll have to leave here. Move right away.’
‘We can’t. You know we can’t.’ Timothy walked up and down the room, anxiously glancing at his watch. He had to go, but how could he leave her like this? ‘I should have listened to you and refused the position of Head here. I didn’t dream you would be so upset by living near her.’
‘Why do you think I left home at sixteen? To get away from her. Every minute of the day I’m wondering what she’s doing, where she is.’
‘Right now she’s on her way to work, as I should be! Here’s Oliver. I’ll meet him and take him straight to school.’
‘He’s probably untidy. Send him to me first.’
‘All right.’
‘On her way to work, being dragged along by those filthy dogs to do housework for my friends!’
* * *
Nelly limped to Mrs French’s back door, stopping occasionally to rub her knee which she had hurt when the dogs had pulled her over. Bobby cocked his leg near the gatepost and she moved to hide him from the view from the kitchen window. Mrs French didn’t like her bringing the dogs and she’d complain if she saw them ‘messing’ as she called it.
‘Yoohoo,’ Nelly shouted as she opened the door before tying the dogs to the fence. As she walked into the kitchen she added, ‘It’s me, dearie. All right fer me to start upstairs?’
A Welcome in the Valley Page 11
