‘Mr Evans told me you have found mistakes on some of the betting slips you’ve been shown. It’s very clever. You’ve had difficulties with sums, and if someone has found a way of helping you, I’d like to know.’
Still Oliver said nothing. He hung his head and his pale face turned a bright pink.
‘Was it one of the teachers? Or Mr Evans?’ Timothy coaxed.
‘It was Gran.’
‘Your Grandmother?’
‘She’s always losing her glasses – but that isn’t a bad sign -’ he added quickly. ‘I help her to pick out her bets. She only does threepenny bets. Nothing wrong with that is there, Father?’
‘No, nothing wrong. Does she win often?’
‘No. She goes on hunches and names she likes, rather than on form. Although I read out the tipsters column when I can.’ He was relaxed now he was reassured that he hadn’t got Nelly into more trouble. ‘Like the Derby,’ he went on. ‘She wouldn’t back the Queen’s horse because it was lame. Rumours aren’t true are they? Like some of the things people say about Gran, calling her Dirty Nelly and that.’
‘You found the piece about the Queen’s horse in the paper?’
‘I only read bits of it. I suggested Gordon Richards’ mount and it won, but she didn’t back that either. She said he’d tried for twenty-seven years and couldn’t win on his twenty-eighth try.’
‘Which horse did she back in the Derby?’
The blush came back to Oliver’s face as he said, ‘Er – Windy.’
‘Why Windy?’
Oliver began to giggle. ‘I don’t know, Father.’
Timothy began to smile and Oliver’s giggles increased.
‘I think you do, young man!’
When Oliver had gone to his class, Timothy began to laugh. If Oliver had been present when Nelly was eating, there was little doubt where the idea of backing Windy had come from. Laughter spluttered on and off all afternoon. Timothy was embarrassed by it, but every time the thought came back it burst out again. Like a schoolboy, he thought guiltily, an immature schoolboy, but the humour of it stayed with him for the rest of the day.
* * *
Amy managed to close the shop in time to catch the bus into town. It was tempting to look at the shops and perhaps buy a new dress; she fancied the sailor style in navy and white that had been advertised in the local newspaper at two pounds ten shillings, but seeing the queue already forming outside the cinema, she joined it and leaned against the wall to wait patiently until the doors opened and they were allowed to file in.
She did not see Harry’s car drive past, slow down and stop, so she was surprised when he touched her arm and came to stand beside her.
‘Harry! What are you doing here? You aren’t taking the day off to see a film, are you?’
‘I could do…’
‘Don’t!’ She turned away, but she was shaking inside at the feel of his arm against hers. She tried to move away but he wouldn’t allow it and the queue held her captive. She imagined that her heart-beat would be felt by him, that he would know how much she wanted him.
‘Come for a drive instead,’ he whispered against her ear, bending down to make sure he was not over-heard.
‘No Harry. No more. I’ve finished with long journeys that never take me anywhere. Go away, please.’
The queue began to move and she thankfully darted into a space between two women who were obviously friends. Harry stood close behind her, pressing himself against her. He leaned forward, breathing on her neck. ‘Just to talk, Amy, love. I promise only to talk. About your Freddy. About him working for me? Like the idea do you?’
She tried to move away from him and was challenged by several people in front of her who turned and glared, accusing her of trying to take their place.
‘Please go,’ she whispered. ‘Leave me alone.’
Then he did, and she felt the loss like a blast of cold air in the summer sunshine.
* * *
When Amy came out the sun had gone and it was raining. She bent forward and began running for the bus. Harry was waiting at the corner and he took her arm and guided her away from the bus stop and to his car.
‘You can’t refuse a lift home, not in this weather.’
‘Straight home,’ she said.
‘And I’ll make sure I don’t leave the keys in the car this time,’ he grinned and Amy found herself responding to his obvious pleasure at having her beside him again.
‘I hope you’re not expecting me to say I’m sorry. I’m not.’
‘I bet you felt mean though, making me walk, and wonder all the time where you’d left the car.’
‘I didn’t. Satisfying it was. I enjoyed it.’
‘I didn’t, Amy, and I haven’t enjoyed a moment since. Missed you terribly I have. There’s no fun in my life now. Can’t we go back to how it was? It was good. You enjoyed it too didn’t you?’
‘I’m thirty-seven and going nowhere.’
‘Where d’you want to go? I’ll take you!’
‘You aren’t free to make any promises.’
‘But what if I were? What then?’
‘Ask me again, when it’s happened! Take me home, Harry.’
He drove silently for a while then slowed down and stopped in a quiet, tree-lined part of the road.
‘No, Harry. I mean it. Stop here and I’ll get out and walk. Rain or no rain. I mean it!’
‘Just talk for a moment. Look, I’ll put my hands in my pockets, right?’
‘There’s nothing to say.’ She sat rigidly staring at the rain-streaked window, her face sad, but her mouth determined.
‘Amy,’ he said sadly. His arm moved around the back of her seat, the promise to keep his hands away from her forgotten. Amy pretended not to notice, but her heart was beating fiercely. The air in the small car filled with urgent awareness. His fingers touched her nape, felt the fine hairs, the soft skin.
She moved, and at once his other arm wrapped around her, but she was reaching for the door and she turned her head to protest as she felt him hold her back. They met more positively than either had intended, and the joy of the contact could not be halted and she was in his arms, their lips meeting in a painful yet sweet moment, burning them with the intensity of the longed-for kiss.
When he spoke, his voice was gruff with emotion.
‘Where shall we go?’
‘Home.’ She touched his mouth with a finger to hush his protest. ‘I have to pick up Margaret from Evie’s. I can’t be late. I’ll – I’ll need Evie’s help again, won’t I?’
‘Half an hour?’
‘No, Harry.’
‘Then stay here, please. Just a minute or so.’
‘What were you doing in town?’
‘Waiting for you. I saw what time the pictures finished and I waited.’
‘Have you eaten?’ Stupid question. An attempt to take the steam out of the situation. What did she care whether or not he had eaten? But she couldn’t say what she wanted to say, so she went on with the trivialities. ‘Your meal will be spoilt. You’ve been home regularly lately.’
‘I love you.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Where shall we go?’
‘I can’t, Harry.’ She was almost at the point of tears.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Tomorrow. To talk.’ She pulled further away from him, stared out at the rain again. ‘Take me home.’
Slowly he released her but then he glanced at her and she turned to meet his gaze and the tears glistened and he gave a groan and reached for her. This time she did not try to escape.
* * *
When Harry reached home, Prue wanted to talk about the discrepancies in his books, but he shrugged her aside. He was breathing heavily, and Prue took it for anger.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.’
He was irritated by her and he looked at her tall, thin face with its constant air of disapproval, and wondered why he wa
s here with Prue, when every part of him wanted to be with her sister. Why should he go on wasting the days, and weeks, and years with a woman he didn’t love, while only a few minutes away, there was Amy.
‘Your dinner is spoilt,’ Prue said calmly. ‘Shall I do some eggs? I bought them from Nelly Luke. She’s filthy but I’m sure the eggs will be all right.’ She went to the stove and began attending to his supper. The meal she had cooked earlier lay on the table, dried and ruined, a silent reproof. He left the room, saying, ‘I don’t want anything,’ and went into the office and closed the door.
‘But it’s early – I thought we’d…’
Fear clutched at Prue’s stomach. For the first time she suspected that there was a woman in his life. His face was flushed and she was almost certain that the redness was enhanced by the slightest touch of lipstick. It was something she had always dreaded. Harry was so attractive to women. They all succumbed to his natural charm and the sparkle in those blue eyes of his. He always attracted the attention of women. Attractive women, she thought sadly. A good wife she was, without a doubt, but an attractive woman she was not.
She had always disapproved of Amy, but now, she wished she were more like her. Amy knew how to attract men, knew how to make the best of herself. Her sister had always had so little, but she had a flair for making the best of herself, a way of dressing that made her noticed, a jaunty way of walking that showed her happy acceptance and joy of life.
Prue made a cup of tea and stared into space, facing the knowledge that she had always been jealous of Amy. That her disapproval of her was a cover for the envy she had always felt. But now, she would turn to her and ask for her help. Amy would know what I have to do to keep Harry. If only I can pluck up the courage to tell her.
Harry was still in his office and she went out of the house and crept around the side to look in through a gap in the blinds to see what he was doing. He was sitting at his desk, his chin on his hands, unmoving, his eyes clouded with unhappiness. She picked a duster off the line, her excuse if she had been seen, and went back inside.
* * *
Fay and Johnny were both up early. Johnny was due to take a bus out at five-forty, and Fay was travelling to Pembroke to begin a new area. She knew she was being irritable and unfair, and tried to stop. But even the way he held his knife and fork seemed to be a challenge.
‘Johnny, why do you hold your knife that way? It isn’t a pen!’ She snatched the offending knife from between his fore-finger and thumb, smearing egg-yolk across his hand, and replaced it, slapping it on his palm and folding his hand around it.
‘Sorry, love. I forget. Habit of years, see.’ He always accepted her criticisms without rancour, angry with himself for not knowing the right way, rather than with her for pointing them out.
‘Sorry, Johnny,’ she said, still angry. ‘But I do hate it when you won’t learn.’
‘Got a long drive today; shall we eat out this evening? Save you cooking? We haven’t been anywhere for ages. Do us both good.’
‘We can’t waste the money.’
‘Yes we can. I’ve got some overtime this week, and life shouldn’t be nothing but work, should it? Come on, love, let me have my own way sometimes.’
‘Where shall we go?’
‘Nothing too fancy. What about the Swan Inn in Llan Gwyn?’ He touched her hands, made her look at him and was frightened to see the unhappiness there. ‘Promise I won’t hold my knife wrong. All right?’ He was relieved to see her smile.
‘All right, Johnny. Book for eight. I don’t think I’ll be home much earlier. In fact, if I’m not home by the time we should leave, you go and I’ll meet you there at eight.’
‘That’s a long day, love. I hope you won’t have to do it very often.’
‘It’s a new area. I simply don’t know.’
When Johnny had gone, she stared out of the small kitchen window into the yard, with its dustbins, coal-shed and assorted buckets and bowls. On the side of the shed was an old galvanised bath that had once been filled twice a week for the family to bath. How she missed the bathroom from her old home, where Evie and Timothy now lived. Perhaps, if this new area was a success, they would soon be able to find the deposit for a house and move on. Far from this place, she hoped fervently.
Yet, she thought as she looked up, above the buckets and the dustbins and the galvanised bath, to the woods she could just see, if Alan were out there, how could she even think of moving away? She shivered. She felt trapped.
Fay looked at her watch, bought to replace the one she had left at the castle. She had half an hour before she must leave. She hadn’t been up there for days and she must keep the promise she had made to herself, not to give up hope of finding Alan again. Changing into casual shoes, and throwing a coat over her shoulders, she left the house.
She picked her way through the seldom-used path behind the row of cottages and up through the woodland, where puddles tried to block her progress. Her feet slid in the sticky surface and she cursed as mud stained her stockings. Now she would have to change them.
Making her way to the castle site, she was aware of the silence. Few birds sang. It was as if a thousand eyes had seen her coming and were watching, waiting for her to go back and leave them in peace to get on with their lives.
At the castle, the grass looked oddly tidy. Still short and marked in white lines from the day of the party. Soon the straight lines would waver and vanish, and the softer curves of nature would return. Fay went slowly towards the kitchens. If anyone was sleeping here, that was the most likely place, she decided, even in weather as warm as today.
She stepped away from the outer walls and as she looked towards the whitewashed, repaired kitchens, a figure appeared, stared briefly then ran away from her. Fay followed. Determined once and for all to see the man, convince herself that she was mistaken, that his likeness to Alan was nothing more than her final grieving.
The man obviously knew the place well because he ran to a wall, climbed it with ease and jumped down on the other side. She ignored the confining straight skirt she wore and went after him. He had paused, convinced she could not follow and stood for a moment longer, surprised as she appeared at the top of the wall and jumped down beside him.
He ran again but Fay, determined, kept up with him. She noticed he was limping and once, when he leapt over a straggle of rocks, saw him stumble. She felt no pity to make her slow up, her expression was one of great determination as she closed in on him. He tripped again, she heard an explosive curse and she was behind him, reaching out, touching his coat, pulling him, making him stop.
‘Leave me alone,’ the man said in a low growl. ‘Go away.’ Her heart beating wildly, her cheeks burning with the rhythm, her neck feeling as if it were about to burst, Fay faced him.
‘Alan. It is you! Alan. Oh, Alan.’ Tears filled her eyes and her throat was so tight she could no longer speak. They looked at each other, her face flushed with running, his partly in shadow, half hidden by the scarf he had hurriedly pulled up.
‘Go away,’ he said again.
Fay stared at him. His eyes, the only part of his face clearly visible, were bright. She saw flight threatening and took a firmer hold of his coat. ‘Alan. Why didn’t you come home?’
He stared at her as if about to speak but in the end, said nothing. Fay tensed herself for the moment when he would run. He tried to pull free and she gripped more tightly. He began to hit her hands with his left hand, raining blows that grew more and more violent. She ignored them and hung onto his coat. Her fingers were white with the effort but she only moved them to change her grip when his coat seemed likely to come off and be abandoned, allowing him to escape from her. ‘Alan,’ she kept repeating. ‘Alan. Alan.’ It was as if she expected the sound of his name would wipe out eight years like a bad dream. ‘Alan.’
She felt him relax, the blows to her hands ceased, but she still gripped him tightly. Then he spoke and all doubts faded and she wanted to cry.
‘Fay,’ h
e whispered.
‘Eight years. Why didn’t you come back to me?’
‘The Alan you knew is dead. I have nothing to give you.’
‘I should have been given the chance to disagree.’
‘Shall we sit down?’ he asked. Fay looked doubtful. She was still gripping his coat, afraid he would run. ‘I won’t run. For a while anyway,’ he said, guessing her thoughts.
‘You’ve watched me, stayed where you could see me. Why?’
‘There was nowhere else to go when I eventually came out of hospital.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were safe?’
‘I couldn’t. I’m not the Alan French you knew, Fay. If I had come back to you it would have only meant facing the loss of you soon after.’
He held the scarf up to hide the right side of his face and gently, Fay pulled it away. She had difficulty holding back the gasp of horror when she saw his face. It was terribly disfigured, the eyes untouched, but below them, nothing but shiny new skin over a shapeless mound of flesh. She managed to say calmly, ‘If it’s only the scar, I think you underestimate our love, your mother’s and mine. It’s shocking at first, but don’t you think we would soon forget it? It doesn’t alter our feelings for you.’ Even as she spoke, her words concentrating on reassuring him and hopefully persuading him to go home, she felt the chill of guilt run through her. She wasn’t his to return to. She belonged to Johnny now.
‘It isn’t the scar, I forget about it myself at times. I caused the death of my men. The knowledge gives me nightmares. I wake up screaming if I sleep under a roof. I was careless, and the enemy knew we were there. They moved in while I was changing the guard and I had relaxed the rigid discipline, even allowed the men to feed two hungry dogs. We were spotted as if we were amateurs playing games. I wake up full of blind hatred, wanting to kill.’ Fay could see his body shaking as he spoke.
‘How could I bring that home to those I love?’ he asked.
‘How do you live?’ she asked, trying to bring his mind back from the nightmares.
A Welcome in the Valley Page 13
