Valley in Bloom

by Valley in Bloom (retail) (epub)

  ‘Swn Y Plant it’s called,’ Nelly said. ‘Sound of Children, ain’t that nice?’

  ‘I’ll leave you to talk if you don’t mind,’ Constable Harris put in. ‘There are things I must see to.’

  ‘We walked up Sheepy Lane,’ Doreen told them when the constable had gone. ‘What’s going on in the field at the bottom, behind the house where Constable Harris says your daughter lives, Nelly?’

  ‘Cricket practice. That lot are playin’ a match next week.’

  ‘Have they picked their team? I’m no mean batsman myself!’

  ‘You play?’

  ‘I certainly do. My bowling isn’t so hot but I’ve scored a few winning sixes for our team back at the Home.’

  ‘Let’s walk down and watch them, shall we? There’s a nice steak an’ kidney puddin’ simmerin’. We’ll ’ave that for our dinner with a few vegetables.’

  ‘Smashing!’

  ‘Then I’ll ’ave to go an’ do me work fer Mrs French. Late today but she didn’t mind, not when I told ’er you was comin’.’

  ‘I’ll walk down with you, Nelly my dear. If I feel too out of puff I’ll take my time coming back.’

  ‘If you’re sure, George.’

  Bert’s voice could be heard complaining before they came in sight of the players.

  The dejected team were sprawled around the pitch listening to Bert’s interpretation of the rules and from the faces of the intended team, his popularity was at an all time low.

  ‘Has there been an argument?’ Doreen grinned, her young, fresh face showing impish delight. ‘It’s just like at the Home: all chiefs and no indians.’

  ‘If they was indians they’d ’ave stuck an arrow through Bert’s gullet ages ago,’ Nelly retorted.

  The disagreement was one that had been repeated at almost every practice, Bert’s insistence that he should go in to bat first. He stood at the crease facing an empty wicket at the other end of the pitch, he banged the bat on to the ground repeatedly as if that action alone could make one of the others take his allotted place and prepare to bowl. Doreen looked at Nelly.

  ‘Shall I break the deadlock?’ she asked.

  ‘Go on,’ George urged. ‘If someone doesn’t do something the council houses will win without anyone seeing the ball.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Doreen, I’m hoping to come and live here for a while. D’you think I could join in the practice?’

  ‘You’re a girl,’ said Bert.

  ‘Never!’

  She took the bat from his tight grip and looked around.

  ‘Anyone willing to bowl for a girl?’ she asked.

  Johnny stood and picked up the ball from where Victor had thrown it in despair and prepared for his run-up. The ‘team’ raised themselves and took an interest as Doreen prepared to defend the wicket. She hit the ball such a swipe that the team ducked and the ball sailed over their heads to disappear into the hedge.

  ‘Was that a fluke, girl, or can you do it again?’ Phil asked in awe.

  ‘Try me,’ Doreen grinned.

  The practice was taken out of Bert’s hands and one after another the men tried to get Doreen out. Archie Pierce sidled into place behind the wicket and when he tried to catch the ball he fell over backwards and was just picking himself up when the next ball was bowled. It was Tad, there to assess the opposition, who finally succeeded in toppling the bails, but even he had to admit that she was one of his finest opponents.

  ‘When is she moving in, Nelly?’ Phil asked. ‘Damn me, she’ll have to be a resident in time for the match, won’t she Bert?’

  ‘Resident or not, I’m not having a girl on my team!’ Collecting his bat, the wickets and the balls, Bert marched home. Practice was over. Doreen, not the light, had stopped play.

  * * *

  It was Doreen who helped Nelly trim the piece of wedding cake to the correct size. She seemed to be a girl who could do practically everything. She learnt from everyone she met, exchanged ideas, and added to what others told her in a way that made Nelly and George marvel.

  She climbed the apple tree and fixed the hanging baskets, using layers of netting wide apart as a means of preventing the birds from stealing the moss and fixing a metal contraption to hold the last two-feet six-inches of the hose-pipe rigid to enable Nelly to water them without climbing on to dangerous stools and ladders.

  ‘I’ve never seen no one like ’er fer thinking things out, Amy,’ Nelly boasted on the following Friday, the morning before the cricket match was to be played. ‘It’s like ’avin’ an inventor in the ’ouse.’

  ‘Tell her to invent a way of getting all the twenty pieces of my wedding cake together,’ Amy pleaded. ‘I don’t think the idea is going to work after all.’

  ‘Why not? Pity if it doesn’t, Amy, all the village are expecting to go and see it on display.’ Twenty minutes later, Nelly having gone home and explained the dilemma, Doreen came into the shop, the dogs with her, and said hesitantly, ‘Mrs Prichard, did you really want suggestions about putting the wedding cake together? I’ll help if you like.’

  ‘I like,’ Amy said with relief. ‘Mrs French and I have tried but it doesn’t stay together.’

  ‘It will, I promise.’

  The wedding cake was to be displayed in the church hall on trestle tables, before being sliced and carried up to the castle grounds on the day of the wedding. Doreen went to discuss the preparations with Mrs French with some trepidation. She had only just arrived in the village and didn’t want to earn the reputation of being a busy-body, even if she was one as she confided to Nelly.

  But Mrs French welcomed her and they went together to the church hall where the last of the cakes had arrived, all wrapped in grease-proof paper and white tea-towels. They measured each one and cautiously cut the sides so they would lock together. Some slanting up and some slanting down until they fitted together like a giant jigsaw.

  With the help of Netta, Fay and others they covered the whole lot with twenty five pounds of marzipan. The cake measured three-feet four-inches by six-feet three-inches and was spread over four trestle tables. It took them from eight-thirty until twelve o’clock, then they went home to prepare to watch the cricket match. In their absence the local baker was coming to plan how he would ice it. When he saw it he almost ran away. Then he decided it was an excellent opportunity to give some practice to his apprentice.

  * * *

  The day was fine but with a threat of rain in the air. Grey clouds hovered over the hills threatening to obliterate the watery sun as Bert stood, wet finger raised like a blessing, feeling the wind direction and ordering the crowd to keep back and stay orderly or he’d have the constable escort them from the field. The council houses won the toss and went in first.

  Tad made a surprising fifteen runs before being caught out by his future father-in-law, Victor. Daniel Honeyman set up a partnership with young David and between them they made another twelve. By the time Mark Rees had made ten and Gerry Williams a surprising eighteen, Bert was looking worried. In a small match like this, six was good scoring. Where did these people get their practice? He’d had his spies out and hadn’t heard a word about a ball being bowled.

  Griff missed an easy catch and the cheering seemed to be excessive until Bert realised that the crowd were remembering his robberies and were expressing satisfaction at the man’s embarrassment.

  Sheila sat huddled up against the damp chill under a Welsh blanket. Beside her was Bethan. The two girls watched the cricket for a while but then their enthusiasm faded and they began to talk.

  ‘Have you and Maurice made any progress towards a reunion?’ Bethan asked.

  ‘No, and I’m not sure I want one now. Somehow I’ve settled for bringing up my baby on my own. It isn’t Maurice’s and everyone knows it so what’s there to pretend about. He doesn’t love me and I doubt if he’d stay loyal. There’d be rows and there’d always be the same end to arguments, him not being the father of the baby. No, I don’t know how I’ll manage and sometimes that frighten
s me, but somehow I will.’

  ‘Mind your mother doesn’t take over like mine did,’ Bethan warned sadly.

  ‘Can you see me allowing that to happen?’ Sheila’s high voice carried and Nelly heard her add, ‘My mother has been nothing but trouble to me.’

  Nelly chuckled. She imagined that her daughter, Evie would say the same about her.

  Nelly and Doreen were watching the game but George hadn’t come. The walk back up the steep field on the previous Saturday had tired him and he had needed a day or two to recover. Nelly knew little about cricket but, as she watched, Doreen explained the procedures and shared each mistake with her. But Nelly’s attention strayed and she looked around the crowd, noting many things.

  Maurice was still avoiding Sheila but he was constantly looking in her direction. There was something going on she suspected and although Sheila wasn’t her favourite person, she hoped he wouldn’t mess up the girl’s life again.

  A crowd had congregated beside Ethel who sat in a chair brought by Phil and Catrin. She was finding it increasingly difficult to walk with her arthritic hips and sitting on the ground would have been impossible, yet she hadn’t wanted to miss the match. Hilda Evans sat near her, pointedly ignoring Griff. Milly Toogood and the Pup were not far away. Arthur Toogood, Nelly observed, was with his grandmother not his mother, and Bethan seemed not to be worried.

  She looked around the field for Oliver and found him with Dawn, Margaret and David, who was hovering, having been warned that he would bat next. Prue Beynon sat awkwardly on the ground with Florrie and baby Sian. Nelly walked towards them to ask about the little girl’s progress but as she reached them Sian suddenly left Florrie’s arms and crawled across the pitch. Margaret ran and picked her up and, to Nelly’s alarm, Prue snatched her from the girl’s arms and began to shout at Margaret in fury.

  ‘Don’t touch my daughter. She’s nothing to do with you or that disgusting brother of yours. Go away and don’t dare even look at her again!’

  ‘But Auntie Prue, she might have been hurt by the ball. I was only—’ Margaret began to sob, the shock of the abuse so unexpected and unfair.

  ‘Don’t touch her, d’you hear me?’ Prue gestured to Florrie who had run up to calm Prue down. ‘Come on, Florrie, we’re going home. I don’t want to breathe the same air as Amy and her illegitimate children!’

  Margaret had heard that word before and remembered its intent to hurt. She pushed past Nelly and ran to the shop where her mother was serving Emlyn and Gwen Parry.

  ‘Oh, Mam, Auntie Prue called me that name and told me never to look at Sian again. What have I done to her?’

  ‘Nothing, Margaret, love, it’s what I’ve done she can’t forgive.’

  Ignoring the startled looks of the customers, Margaret insisted, ‘No Mam, it’s me and… oh, Mam, she called Freddy disgusting.’

  ‘Out of her mind again is she, poor dab?’ Gwen said in a low sympathetic voice. ‘Sorry I am. If there’s anything we can do, just ask.’

  ‘Thank you, now if you have all you need…’

  Dismissed by Amy’s sharp tone, Gwen and Emlyn left, a little dismayed not to have the full story and disappointed, too, not to finish their complaint about Bert Roberts not asking Emlyn to join the cricket team.

  * * *

  Griff didn’t know where to sit. He had Pete for company for a while until he was called to field, then he looked around at the heads turned away from him and wondered if things would ever return to normal. Hilda was sitting near Ethel. He walked over to them and asked how they were but the response was brief and there was no encouragement to try and build a conversation on the simple enquiry. Hilda didn’t speak to him. Like the rest, her head was turned, her gaze set at some dot in the far distance.

  He walked around the pitch, watching the play, wishing the nightmare would end. Perhaps he would move away, start again where people didn’t treat him as if he had some dreaded disease.

  Hilda watched him and there was sympathy in her heart. They had been married for twenty years, it was hard to pretend she bore no responsibility for his happiness any longer. He seemed such a sad, drooping figure, a stranger and nothing like the man of just a few short months ago when he had been a popular friend of everyone. What he had done was cruel but how many punishments should he be given? And how long should his sentence last?

  Another chair was carried into the field and placed near Ethel’s. This one was for Grandad Owen who, although past ninety, was quite interested in all that went on and had been determined not to miss the first cricket match to be played in the village for many years. He spent the next hour laughing as old Archie Pierce crouched expectantly behind the batsman and continued to miss the ball and fall backwards in his efforts to take a wicket. Grandad Owen’s daughter-in-law, Megan, and her two daughters danced attendance on him handing him sweets, biscuits and an occasional drink of hot tea from the flask they had brought with them. He smiled a toothless smile at Ethel and Hilda but spoke to no one.

  Delina took Dawn over to meet him and to take a surreptitious photograph. He offered them one of his sweets but didn’t say much. His bright eyes seemed unable to leave the players who were now arguing as Rod Taylor, the council houses captain, tried to set out his fielders to meet the bowling of Johnny Cartwright who was being encouraged by Phil and Victor, to ‘smash ’em’.

  Most of the crowd had brought sandwiches and these had begun to disappear long before the break between innings. When Bert’s fielders had succeeded in getting the tenth man out, this by a spectacular catch by Nelly’s son-in-law Timothy, most of the food had already been consumed. Even with swearing, pleading and stamping up and down, Bert was unable to prevent the two teams from disappearing towards the bus stop to go to The Drovers.

  Two hours later they trooped back and Bert looked at the glowering sky with dismay. Two and a half hours to better the score of eighty-nine. What a disaster this would be. He was so agitated that, after insisting on his right to bat first, he was out to a catch by Gerry Williams at cover without scoring. The chorus of ‘Quack, Quack, Quack’ didn’t help his self-esteem.

  Victor did better achieving seven runs, partnered by Johnny Cartwright who went on to make seventeen. Sidney hit a low shot which had the effect of waking up a bored Daniel at square leg in time to duck but not attempt a catch, and managed one run.

  Phil was tenth man and with an hour to play and twenty runs to get, he decided that it was best to produce an injury.

  ‘Sorry, Bert, but I’ve put my thumb out. You’ll have to ask Doreen to go in instead of me.’

  ‘Phil Davies you’re a pain in the neck! All you have to do is go in and stay in. No one expects you to manage the twenty runs we need to win, just hold us to a draw, right?’ Bert glared at him but Phil smiled, raised his injured hand and sighed.

  ‘Can’t be done, boy. Best to ask Doreen.’

  ‘I can’t send a girl in.’

  ‘Then give her Grandad Owen’s cap and call her Harry,’ Johnny suggested, ‘only let’s get on, shall we?’

  Grandad Owen gladly lent his cap and allowed his head to be covered by a blanket. Doreen hid her hair under the flat cap and walked to defend the wicket. There were mutters of curiosity but those who recognised her said nothing and those who didn’t began to complain that an outsider, a mystery marvel, a secret celebrity, had been infiltrated into the team.

  ‘Now no clever stuff,’ Bert hissed. ‘No trying for runs, or you’ll be out and we’ll lose. Just stay in there, right?’

  For a while she did as he asked, sending the ball gently along the pitch and not attempting to run. Impatiently she saw two easy hits and rolled them to the edge of the field, past two disbelieving fielders and scored eight. Instead of being pleased, Bert was in such a state that for a moment Doreen was afraid he would eat his cap. Johnny was facing her and occasionally he would shout for her to run but an echoing shout from Bert made her shake her head sadly and gesture for him to stay at his crease.

  Ove
r followed over in boring defensive play and when the time was almost up, Johnny faced the bowling of Tad and he sent a ball running through the cut grass to the boundary for another four. Doreen faced the batting for the next over and with a grin at Johnny, she hit the ball with all her strength and saw it sail across the boundary for a six. The village had won!

  There was laughter as Doreen shook her hair free of Grandad Owen’s flat cap. As the crowd dispersed arguments over the validity of Doreen playing went on, but most agreed the game had been fun and should be repeated. Archie Pierce walked off more stiffly than old man Owen and swore he’d never be able to sit comfortable again.

  Most went home having arranged to meet later at The Drovers for the post mortem. Nelly and Doreen went over to the shop to see why Margaret hadn’t returned.

  ‘They’ve gone home. Margaret being upset,’ Mavis Powell told them. ‘Something wrong with Amy’s sister again I gather, got it in for young Margaret from all accounts. Called Freddy all sorts of things, too. Something there we haven’t been told for sure.’

  ‘Yes, well, I expect you’ll soon find out.’ Nelly glared at her, head forward like a huge bear defending its young, then walked out. ‘I think I’ll go and see if Amy’s all right before I goes ’ome, Doreen. Go an’ stay with George and tell ’im all about the match, will yer?’

  She walked quickly through the village, poking a tongue out childishly as she passed Nosy-Bugger Prue Beynon’s house and muttering dark threats if she dared to upset Margaret or Amy again.

  She found Amy and Margaret sitting in front of the fire. The light hadn’t been switched on and they were cuddled together on the couch. There was an open box of chocolates beside them.