Valley in Bloom

by Valley in Bloom (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  For Dawn this Christmas was filled with excitement. She knew that at Auntie Ethel’s that evening an announcement would be made. She fingered the new dress that Delina had bought for her and smiled. From her father there were two films and a postal order to pay for their developing. If she was lucky she might use one film up on Nelly’s gypsy friends.

  * * *

  Margaret was given a doll and a small sewing machine plus a box of coloured cottons and a pair of scissors. Freddy’s parcel contained an assortment of ribbons for her hair and a pretty glass dish for her dressing table.

  ‘What did Freddy get for you, Mam?’ she asked as she displayed her presents for Amy to see.

  ‘It’s just a note.’ Amy frowned as she opened the envelope and took out the single page of note-paper. She read it aloud.

  ‘Look in the shed. What can it mean?’

  Still in their dressing gowns they went outside and in the corner of the shed, badly wrapped, was a brightly painted wheelbarrow containing soil and several packets of seeds.

  ‘It’s for the competition, Mam. Clever Freddy!’

  ‘But how did it get there?’ Amy frowned. Had Freddy been home again and not come to see them? Once before he had come home, spent his leave with Sheila, and failed to let them know he was in the village. The thought made the excitement of Christmas morning fade.

  ‘It must have been there for weeks, since he was last home. How often do we go in there this time of the year?’

  ‘Of course. Silly me.’ Amy hugged Margaret, trying to smile. Yet she remembered going into the shed recently to find the heavy yard broom, and the wheelbarrow with its wrapping of gaily coloured paper wasn’t there then.

  * * *

  In her grandmother’s house on St Illtyd’s Road, Sheila glanced at the clock and decided to award herself another hour in bed. She and Gran were going to her parents for dinner so there was no rush. A taxi was booked for twelve o’clock to take them down the hill to the flat above Amy’s shop, Gran not being able to walk very far.

  The parcel from Freddy was on her bedside table, left there by him when he had managed to come home for an unexpected twenty-four hours, arriving in the dark and leaving in the dark and hoping no one had seen him.

  She smiled as she remembered how they had spent the day. Making love, sleeping, and hardly bothering with food. Gran had thought she was out, first at work in the small gift-shop where she had worked since giving her notice and leaving the gown shop in Llan Gwyn. Later, she told Gran, she would be out for the evening with some friends and home late. She had prepared breakfast and a cold lunch for her grandmother, pretended to leave for work, but had climbed the stairs again to where Freddy was waiting for her, his eyes showing desire, the secretiveness and the importance of silence adding spice to the occasion. It was just like one of the stories in the magazines she bought: romantic, daring and heavenly.

  Sheila dozed, then woke and opened the parcel. It was a small, sparkling brooch with hearts entwined in a design picked out in red stones amid a diamante cluster. When she dressed she pinned it on a ribbon and wore it around her throat, opening the neck of her blouse as far as she dare, remembering that it was a visit to her parents she was dressing for and not a visit to town with Bethan.

  * * *

  Oliver arrived at the cottage before Nelly and George were dressed on Christmas morning, Evie having too much to do to cope with his chatter. He was excited as he opened and admired the small gifts George and Nelly had bought him. Dawn arrived and they all went for a walk through the crackling, denuded woodland, where the ground was scattered with fallen branches and the last of the leaves were bedraggled and moist with the onset of decay.

  ‘The woods smell like mushrooms, Gran,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Fungus growin’ and eatin’ up the leftovers,’ she explained. ‘Takin’ the leaves and tops off of the ’azel nuts so the squirrels can pack ’em away neat an’ tidy.’

  The day was dull, the sky hidden by thick clouds as the four of them made their way to Gypsy Lane and Clara. It was very cold as they walked across Farmer Leighton’s fields, the dampness seeping under their clothes and making their skin feel like marble.

  They saw no one as they headed for the lane leading to Leighton’s farmhouse. The village houses were all dark, shuttered in against the unpleasant weather, while inside, Nelly guessed, the occupants were sitting preparing for an excess of food, or to leave the comfort of their fires to visit friends.

  As they reached the bend in the lane that would give them sight of the camp, they smelt smoke, then they saw it, rising and spreading wide on the moisture-laden air, falling about the fields, clinging to the hedges and adding to the dankness of the winter’s chill.

  In front of Clara’s caravan a fire burned in a shallow hole in the ground. Over it, bubbling and sending out savoury smells, was a large cooking pot. Further away another fire burned less successfully and it was this one that was sending out the smoke. Several lanterns were hung from convenient places around the area near the cooking fire, giving the effect of a stage set for action to begin. There was no sign of the inhabitants. Nelly called, waited, her head on one side like a bird, then said, ‘Gone orf somewhere but they won’t be long, Clara knows we’re comin’.’

  Dawn wandered around, looking with nervous interest at the ornate homes. Her camera clicked several times as she set it up on a firm base and attempted a time exposure, but Nelly knew it was faces she liked photographing best. She stood up and leaned over a gate leading into a field beyond which lay Farmer Leighton’s house. It was from there she guessed they would come.

  ‘Look over ’ere,’ she called to Dawn. ‘It’s like a procession. Dogs first, then the men, and Clara and the other women taggin’ on be’ind.’ Over the hill they came, each with a lantern that made their silhouettes clearly visible, separating the long flowing skirts of the women and the trousered legs of the men. They were each carrying a parcel of food given by Mr Leighton: potatoes, carrots, onions and several loaves of bread. They were nine in all and, as they recognised Nelly, they called a greeting.

  Introductions were a blur but Dawn, having been given permission, snapped away with her camera as the strangely dressed wanderers added their lanterns to the rest and settled around them on the grass to discuss their news. Several of the group were new to Oliver and he sat silently, close to Nelly, only managing a wavering smile for Clara.

  Although it was early in the day, their hosts made the atmosphere reminiscent of an evening of celebration. Clara told stories of her childhood that fascinated the children, her weathered face frowning at some of the revelations of deprivation, and wrinkling into laughter at other, more pleasant, memories.

  ‘I was born the youngest of ten chavies, by the side of the road in a bender tent. Like the top of this vardo,’ she said, pointing behind her at her caravan home, ‘only without the wheels. We cut branches and bent them over and stuck them into the ground, deep and firm, and covered them with a few pieces of tarpaulin, holding it steady against the wind with turfs and anything else we could find. Warm as a summer’s day it was in them benders. Lit by candles we made ourselves from the fat of animals, we’d sit of a winter’s night and tell stories, keeping our memories alive for the generations to come. Better’n your books, Oliver. Them stories were real and true.’

  ‘How did you find food?’ Oliver asked in a whisper.

  ‘There were days when we didn’t, young Oliver. We’d scour the hedgerows for something to fill our bellies and there were many days when we had to walk miles for even a drop of water for the babies and for us to make a cup of tea.’

  ‘Summertime is good for us travellers, although that be a changin’’ a young man added when Clara had fallen silent. ‘We follow the work all over the country, fruit-picking, labourin’ on the hedges and ditches, digging for scrubies – what you call potatoes – and there’s the hops for those that can get there in time. No, it’s the winter what’s hard. Lucky for pe
ople like us with a kindly farmer like Leighton to help us, not so fortunate for others.’

  ‘How can you get all you need in that small vardo?’ Dawn asked, looking into her camera lens as Clara turned to reply.

  ‘What people need is very little, what you want is another thing altogether. Staying in one place makes you want more and more things, but you don’t need ’em. We only have to remind ourselves that the poor horse has to pull it all and it’s easy to abandon what we don’t need.’

  The smoking fire had recovered its humour and was blazing and throwing out a great heat. They moved to sit closer to its cheerful light. Then a young man stood up and disappeared inside a vardo parked behind Clara’s. He returned with a fiddle on which he began to play a lively tune. Another man took a mouth organ from his pocket, rubbed it against his coat, and began to accompany the fiddle. To Nelly and George’s delight and Oliver’s acute embarrassment, the gypsies began to dance, feet tapping almost soundlessly on the cropped, damp grass.

  Nelly and George joined in, Nelly’s face bright with the excitement of being allowed to enjoy their impromptu celebration. Dawn walked around the dancers snapping, hiding herself under her coat to replace a used film, and snapping again. The young man sang a song about the deprivations of the road and why they couldn’t live the life they chose. George sang, too, a lonely song about the sadness of being alone. Nelly guessed he was remembering the years he had travelled the road, homeless and unloved.

  With the sound of the fiddle still in their ears, they regretfully left the encampment and headed back down Gypsy Lane and home.

  ‘Got any snaps left, Dawn?’ Nelly asked.

  ‘A few, d’you think we could go back again tomorrow?’

  Nelly walked Dawn and Oliver home, promising to see them in a while at Ethel’s. Then she went home to find George taking some baked potatoes out of the oven.

  ‘That cold fresh air has made me glad I put them in. Come on, get out the rabbit you roasted, there’s plenty for tomorrow as well.’

  Happy to see his appetite returned, Nelly did as he asked.

  * * *

  Ethel’s room was already crowded when they arrived there at half past nine. Nelly pushed her way past Phil, Billie, Bert and Johnny, who were playing a game of cribbage at a small table near the kitchen door, and stood in a corner near Johnny’s mother and Fay.

  ‘We ain’t missed nothin’ ’ave we?’ she demanded as she tried to take off her coat in the crush. ‘No interestin’ announcements?’

  ‘Who needs announcements in a place like this?’ Johnny laughed. ‘There’s nothing kept secret long enough to be announced!’

  But everyone glanced at Tad and Delina who had come early and talked to Ethel about what they wished to make public knowledge.

  ‘Ten o’clock, Nelly,’ Netta whispered. ‘It won’t be long.’

  ‘Thank ’eavens we wasn’t any later.’

  She told them then of their visit to the gypsy camp and saw with a groan that, unnoticed, Timothy and Evie were in the kitchen. They wouldn’t be pleased to hear where she had taken their son on Christmas morning!

  It was ten-thirty when Ethel brought out hot pasties and mince pies from the oven, and plates of sandwiches and cakes. Then, with every glass filled, they all stood up and wished Tad and Delina all the best in their future years together.

  ‘But we haven’t announced it yet!’ Tad laughed.

  ‘You’re too slow, boy,’ Phil said. ‘The women have been talking about nothing else for days.’ From pockets and under chairs packages were brought forth and Delina was showered with gifts. The room was like a battlefield, conversation was lively and loud as everyone struggled to reach over and hug Delina and shake Tad’s hand. Phil and Johnny began to discuss the best place to live, the women reminisced about weddings and laughter abounded. The food was consumed with opinions, the clatter of plates and cutlery adding to the din.

  No one saw how badly Sheila had taken the announcement that Delina, whom she believed had stolen Maurice from her, was to marry. She turned to Bethan, who was spending the Christmas evening with Ethel for the first time, and pretended to make light of the news.

  ‘They’ll never marry. Good heavens, it’s like a pantomime! One minute she’s stealing Maurice from me and pretending he’s her great love, the next it’s goodbye Maurice, and now it’s hello Tad!’

  Making the excuse that she had to go back and see to her grandmother, Sheila left before eleven o’clock. Bethan went with her, although disappointed at having to go so soon. This was a side of the villagers she hadn’t seen before, stuck away in her fish and chip shop and spending the rest of her time either working outside in the cold yard or hidden in her small bed-sit. She was surprised how friendly Billie Brown had been. He was very different from how she had imagined him, seeing him sailing past on that tractor of his.

  Sheila was hurt and jealous of the celebration she had witnessed. ‘Everyone was pleased for them. They’d bought gifts for them, the stuck-up schoolteacher and the out-of-work, ill-tempered little man who sweeps up rubbish in a factory! While I, who was abandoned in such a cruel way, was ignored. Couldn’t they see how unkind they were to rub it in how happy Delina was while I, a wife without a husband, was grieving?’

  ‘What about Freddy?’ Bethan asked.

  ‘Freddy isn’t someone to take seriously! I pass the time with him, try to forget my lost love for a moment or two, while inside I grieve.’ Sheila was enjoying herself, imagining the scene as portrayed in a novel. The broken-hearted and beautiful young girl, expected to celebrate the happiness of the woman who had ruined her life. But the anger against Delina was real.

  The party at Ethel’s went on until three in the morning and Nelly was among the last to leave. With Phil, his wife Catrin, and George, she volunteered to stay and clear away the dishes so Ethel wouldn’t have to face it in the morning.

  ‘There ain’t enough food left to feed a sparrer!’ Nelly laughed. ‘It’s the same each year, everyone comes in complaining of being full up from too much turkey and as soon as Ethel waves a plate they all come runnin’ like they was starved!’

  It was dry when they left. The air was still and a mist hung over the trees as they walked slowly past the edge of the wood. The dogs were sniffing excitedly at hidden trails and on impulse, George said, ‘Let’s go on a while, past the cottage and behind the houses towards the farm. The dogs will like a stretch.’

  The ground climbed a little and with only a couple of thin torch beams to guide them they stumbled once or twice as small bushes tripped them. Nelly watched George, looking for a sign of fatigue, but he seemed able to cope with the exercise without effort. Their route took them down again to come out in Gypsy Lane. George began to sing and she joined in. Then she stopped and touched his arm.

  Below them the fire between the gypsy caravans glowed and in the misty light they saw the huddle of people still sitting around it, the sound of the fiddle now playing sadder, more melancholy airs, but there was a beauty and a magical feeling to the sight. They didn’t go down but turned and retraced their steps towards the cottage.

  ‘Nice to ’ave an ’ome, George. I don’t think I’d like to be wandering without a place to call ’ome.’

  ‘For the gypsies, home is where they are now, Romanistan, that’s what it means. It’s their home and their nation.’

  ‘’Appy Christmas to ’em George, and to us.’

  Chapter Ten

  Sheila was very discontented. Freddy was so far away and even though he spent most of his leave with her, there were many days and nights when she had no company and, worse than that, no one to tell her she was beautiful and desirable. Her heart longed for a man’s admiration, and her body for fulfilment. It wasn’t love she felt for Freddy, that, she thought with a gentle sigh, was reserved for the husband who had abandoned her, but at least he reminded her she was an alluring woman. Alluring… yes, she liked that.

  Remembering it was a Tuesday, the day on which Bethan didn
’t open the shop, she decided to call in on her way to work and arrange to go out somewhere, anywhere to get away from the boring four walls of her room.

  Bearing in mind the possible visit to a public house, a cafe, or the pictures, she dressed with even greater care than usual. She chose to wear her new winter-white swagger coat with a hood. She had lined the hood with some red taffeta bought at a remnant counter and was pleased with the effect. She considered it dramatic.

  Giving her grandmother her breakfast, she explained that she might not be in until late that evening and, gathering up her handbag and the umbrella that matched it, she hurried off down the hill to the main road. The weather was cold, the frost glistened on the ground making puddles into hard, glass-like traps for her high-heeled shoes to slip on. The wind was filled with icy Arctic air and it hurt her forehead as she hurried down towards the bus stop. The new coat wasn’t as warm as she had hoped and she almost went back to find another cardigan to add to the jumper she wore, but the prospect of missing Bethan and having yet another boring evening in made her tense herself against the discomfort, hold the hood tighter against her face and hurry on.

  In Sheepy Lane she saw Phil-the-post on his rounds heading for his mother’s cottage for a second breakfast. Without much hope she asked if there was a letter for her from Australia.

  ‘Only one for Mam, Sheila. Call in on the way home and she’ll show it to you for sure.’

  She shrugged and waved airily to imply that she didn’t much care whether she saw it or not and hurried on, across the road and down the lane leading to the back of the fish and chip shop.

  Bethan was up and already washing down the yard, which constantly smelt of fish.

  ‘I can’t stay a moment,’ Sheila said, ‘I have to catch the bus, but are you free to meet me after the shop closes? We could go to the pictures, or just for a cup of coffee?’