Victor was pleased to see her but with Dawn, Tad, Delina and the boys there, it was impossible to talk.
‘Come on, Amy, we’ll go to your house, we can have a few private moments there. Margaret won’t be back until you ring to say you’re home, will she?’
Amy didn’t say anything until they were inside the house and the door was pushed to. Then she repeated what she had been told and added the details of Prue’s behaviour. And then she remembered how uneasy Freddy had been with his aunt and how upset he had been when he had heard of his aunt’s pregnancy. By the time she had finished talking to Victor she had convinced herself the rumours were true.
‘It all fits now, Victor. But what am I going to do? Freddy won’t come home ever again once this becomes general knowledge and with Ethel knowing and then the mother of Phil-the-post, how can it not become headline news?’
‘Don’t go so fast, love. Calm down. You’ve convinced yourself of Freddy’s guilt without giving him a hearing. Now that’s not like you, is it?’
The phone rang and she stood up to answer it.
‘That’ll be Margaret to ask if she can come home I expect.’ But it was Freddy. Unprepared, unable to stop herself from asking the one question she shouldn’t have asked, she demanded:
‘Freddy, are you the father of baby Sian?’
‘What? Who have you been talking to, Mam?’
‘Are you? Tell me the truth, Freddy. I can face anything so long as I’m told the truth.’
‘I’m sorry, Mam, I don’t know how it happened, she—’ Amy slammed down the phone and when it rang a few moments later, she took it off the hook and left it hanging.
‘Oh, Victor. What can we do?’
He held her tightly, talked soothingly and calmed her down, but as despair eased, passion grew and he led her up the stairs and they lay on the bed together, seeking escape from the disasters of the day in love.
* * *
Margaret smiled at Mrs French.
‘There’s no answer, Mrs French. Mam must have put it down after that phone call and not put it on the hook properly. It’s all right, though, she’s home. The phone being engaged wouldn’t happen if she wasn’t home.’
Margaret walked down the drive turning twice to wave to Mrs French and when she touched the front door she didn’t need to knock, it was open. The radio wasn’t playing but her mother’s coat and Victor’s jacket were on the chair. In the kitchen were the unwashed cups and saucers from a tray of tea.
She frowned, wondering where her mother could be, half-tempted to run out and catch up with Mrs French. Since they had been burgled, she had been uneasy in the house on her own. Then she heard voices and knew they were upstairs. Quietly, intending to shout and surprise them, she tip-toed up. The bedroom door was ajar and through the crack she saw them in bed. Giving a wail that ended in a scream, she ran from the house and disappeared through the hedge and into the field beyond.
Amy sat up and ran down the stairs to reach for the phone.
‘Please don’t let that be Margaret,’ she prayed. ‘Please don’t let it be her.’ The phone rang and rang without a reply then, a slightly breathless Mrs French picked it up.
‘Monica? Amy here. Is Margaret on her way home yet? Sorry I was delayed.’
‘She left a while ago. Isn’t she there?’
‘I – I think so. In fact I think she’s hiding, intending to surprise me. Thanks for looking after her, I’ll explain what happened tomorrow.’ Without waiting for any more she pushed Victor aside and reached for her coat. ‘Where will she have gone?’
‘Oliver’s. Nelly’s. Back to Mrs French?’ Victor’s mind was racing as fast as hers. ‘You go and try Nelly and I’ll go to see if she’s at Oliver’s. Another call to Mrs French first.’ Babbling like two idiots they made their plans and ran off, leaving the door open and a note in case she returned on her own. Amy felt she was on a non-stop ride to hell. What would happen next? Hugging her coat around her and holding back sobs, she ran up the lane to Nelly’s cottage.
Nelly and George were in the garden. Doreen was putting the finishing touches to a flower bed at the edge of the lawn.
‘Don’t know ’ow long that’ll last with me chickens rampagin’ like a herd of buffaloes,’ Nelly laughed, ‘but it’s nice, ain’t it? Doreen and George did it.’
‘Have you seen Margaret, Nelly?’ Amy said, gasping for breath having run up the steep lane.
‘She’s inside with Ollie, they’re supposed to be fetchin’ us all a drink of lemonade, stay an’ ’ave one why don’t yer?’
Amy ran down the path and into the cottage and saw Margaret, her beautiful Margaret, sobbing in a corner. The dogs were on her lap trying to lick the tears away.
‘Margaret, love, let me try to explain.’
‘How could you, Mam!’
‘I’m sorry you came home just then, but when two people love one another and…’ she stumbled, trying desperately to find the right words. It was almost a relief when Margaret interrupted her.
‘To go and get married without me being your bridesmaid.’
‘What?’ Once again Amy thought her wits had left her. ‘What did you say, my darling?’
‘You and Uncle Victor were in bed together and you told me that’s something people do after they’re married. You had a wedding without me being your bridesmaid.’
‘My love, we aren’t married. Uncle Victor and I were just lying down talking.’
Oh, the beautiful, beautiful innocence of children. Amy took her daughter in her arms and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and did both.
* * *
‘Going to the wedding, Maurice?’ Sheila asked when she and her husband stepped off the bus one evening after travelling separately from Llan Gwyn. ‘Anyone can go. No invitation list, mind, just everyone who wants to can be there. More like a Royal command than an invitation if you ask me. And we’ve all been asked to help with the food. Who do they think they are, these people?’
‘Very popular, Amy Prichard is and Victor, too. I don’t think anyone wants to be left out,’ Maurice defended. ‘Mam’s having a taxi, she doesn’t want to miss it bad hip or no bad hip. Though how we’ll get her to the castle grounds I don’t know.’
‘Going with her are you?’
‘All the Davies’, yes. Sidney and Rita and their two, Teddy and his family and Phil and Catrin of course. We’ll carry Mam if necessary.’
‘I’ll probably go with Bethan to keep her company. I won’t stay, though, I’m not keen on a lot of foolish nonsense and that’s what it’ll be for sure.’
‘You can come with us if you like, Sheila. Mam would like that.’
Sheila shrugged and tried to look indifferent. ‘You can call for me if you like.’
* * *
‘There’s more thievery going on in this village than when Griff was at his worst,’ PC Harris complained to Phil. ‘If I’ve had one complaint about window boxes being robbed and plants vanishing, then I’ve had fifty. I thought this was a village versus village competition. Yet the houses are vying with each other as if it were house versus house! The Taylors aren’t speaking to those either side of them, the Jenkins are insisting that their neighbours’ pond attracts vermin that eat their asters. Fred Mathias’ rabbits got out and nibbled next door’s nasturtiums, and Fred woke up the next morning and found that someone had sprayed his phlox and Canterbury bells with weed-killer. It’s unbelievable. Now this!’
‘This’ was a once fine display of coleus, the leaves in every hue from pale cream through yellow, green, pink and orange to deepest crimson. Freddy had been growing them on the windowsill in the shed for a display on an arrangement of shelves outside The Drovers. Someone had flattened them and daubed them with red paint.
‘Who would have done it?’ Amy asked miserably. ‘Surely no one hates me or Freddy that much? Anyway, it wasn’t even for me. Freddy raised them to display outside the pub. What reason could any one have for spoiling them?’
‘Some d
on’t need a reason,’ PC Harris said sadly. Then he saw Freddy’s bicycle.
‘Looks as if Freddy is the target, not you, Mrs Prichard. His friends are a bit old for childish pranks, aren’t they?’ He frowned. The tyres were punctured, the frame and handlebars covered in the still sticky wet paint. ‘Done recently by the look of it. I’ll see what I can find out but I don’t think that will help those poor coleus.’
Amy remembered seeing Florrie on a step-ladder painting the door of Prue’s garage. It was red like the rest of the woodwork on the house. Fearing that her sister might be responsible she said, ‘No, Constable Harris. Don’t bother to make any enquiries. I don’t want to know who did it. Freddy will be home a little while before the competition and we’ll buy some plants to replace these.’
‘I’m off to look at the damage to Tad Simmons’ garden now. Dug up it was and all the flowers given by neighbours torn up. I just don’t know what this place is coming to, Mrs Prichard. I really don’t. Well, if I happen on any information I’ll call and see you.’
He went off slowly, wavering on his bicycle until he reached the road, then he made good speed in the hope of sorting out Tad’s complaint and getting back in time to hear the news.
He lifted his leg up and off his bicycle and as he walked up Sheepy Lane pondered on the cantankerous gardeners of Hen Carw Parc.
* * *
Maurice felt waves of anger towards Freddy every time he thought of him.
They had been friends and last year, when Sheila was expecting, he had been amused at Freddy being thought responsible. He had teased him later, called him the boy wonder, and all the time he had been playing games. Perhaps he had been giving Nosy-Bugger Prue Beynon more than a bit of help in the garden. An old woman like that, too. The boy deserved a hammering.
Why had Sheila chosen to seek sympathy and comfort with Freddy? Then the thought occurred to him that perhaps it hadn’t been Freddy. If he fancied his auntie for heaven’s sake, would he be interested in someone as different as Sheila?
He smiled. She had been a victim of a brief affair and got out of her depth. The smile widened, he knew only too well that she was a victim of her own strong desires. Perhaps blaming Freddy was the simplest thing to do after last year’s fiasco? His chance to ask her came on the following day when he walked down Sheepy Lane from his mother’s house and met her at the bus.
‘Sheila, about this baby you’re expecting. It isn’t Freddy’s is it? Come on, you can tell me the truth. There’s a young man somewhere who doesn’t know where a brief moment of passion has landed you, isn’t there? Remember, I know you and your… unbridled passion.’
What did he want her to say? Sheila was confused. The expression on his face suggested that if it were someone other than Freddy Prichard he might be better pleased. She widened her eyes, looked up at him and said nothing. Unbridled passion, she liked the sound of that and from the way his hazel eyes were shining, so did Maurice.
‘I don’t want you to tell me who he was. I’d want to kill him if I knew. Just tell me it wasn’t Freddy.’
Sheila still hesitated. He walked beside her, looking down at her in an almost protective way. He was smiling and there was no undercurrent of anger that she could detect. He didn’t care who it was, as long as it wasn’t Freddy.
‘Why would you want to kill him? What is it to you, Maurice Davies?’
‘I don’t blame you, Sheila, I know what it’s like to be lonely. But you wouldn’t have to resort to finding that sort of comfort from a little twerp like Freddy Prichard.’
‘It’s been very difficult for me,’ she said in a whisper, flashing him a look, pleading a little sympathy.
‘I know and I’m not proud of what I did. I was obsessed by Delina and you were part of the reason I lost her. I had to get away from you all. I’m sorry. I was less than a man, leaving you to face everything alone.’
She wanted to lean just that fraction of an inch to allow them to touch, but she daren’t. Intuitively she knew that a wrong move and this would be her very last chance gone.
‘Come out with me tonight and we’ll talk about how we can best make amends. You can forget the nonsense about involving Freddy. I’ll look after you.’
‘You’d take on someone else’s baby?’ She stopped and stared at him, her eyes wide with hope.
‘I’ll meet you at half-past seven and we’ll talk. Right?’
He left her at the bus stop and went back up St Hilda’s Crescent into Hywel Rise. When he passed Tad’s house he jumped over the low wall and flattened the remainder of the plants left standing. The curtain twitched and he saw the face, not Tad’s, but that of Constable Harris. He stood transfixed until the door opened and the angry voice of the law demanded, ‘Come here, Maurice Davies. I think there’s a bit of explaining you can do.’
‘All right, I confess! I’m a secret garden-hater. Where are the cuffs,’ he held his wrists out obligingly as the outraged constable came up the path followed by Tad.
Chapter Twenty Four
The gardens in Hen Carw Parc were lovely. Everywhere Nelly looked there were flowers of every imaginable hue. The displays began outside The Drovers with troughs and boxes of geraniums and their trailing accompaniments. Along the verges right through the village borders of colour swept the eyes forward. The flowers didn’t end at the main road, but branched off into every turning. Even the lane leading up to Nelly’s cottage had flowers growing in the banks and, apart from the area where Leighton’s old horses chewed them, they made a rich display.
The flowers seemed endless. Besides the road edges, each house had designed their own riot of colour. Amy’s shop blazed orange and gold with annuals that had been encouraged to bloom a little early. Marigolds, Amy’s favourite, glowed like jewels amid the sacks of vegetables outside the shop window. That she was blocking the pavement more than usual seemed irrelevant to the patrolling policeman who decided that pride in the village must take precedent over the law for a little while – at least until the village had been judged.
In spite of or perhaps, Nelly told George, because of the arguments and rivalry between the enthusiastic gardeners, every person who could walk had spent hours preparing for the day of the judges examination. They hadn’t been told exactly when this would take place, only that it would be sometime in June.
Nelly’s pond was showing the beginnings of life; heavily speckled with small frogs that hopped around the already flourishing waterweed and bog-loving irises and primulas supplied by Billie, rose tall and added a look of maturity to the new structure.
But although enthusiasm continued to grow as proud owners trimmed and nurtured their flower beds and containers and argued over which were the best kept gardens, the spirit of the village swelled and prepared to celebrate that other great event, Amy and Victor’s wedding.
The Reverend Barclay Bevan generously agreed to marry Amy and Victor in church. ‘After all,’ he explained to Nelly, who had helped to persuade him, ‘as you point out, Victor is a widower and Amy is, in the eyes of the law if not the church, a spinster of this parish. If we ignore the fact that she has two illegitimate children there’ll be no difficulty.’ His round face looked troubled all the same. He had agreed, but in his heart he was already regretting the decision.
‘She’s got more right than several of them pillars of society that go down on their knees every Sunday, an’ well you know it.’ Nelly began to add further protests but Barclay Bevan hurried on his cassock swishing her further arguments away like irritating flies.
Clara was with Nelly and about to leave and catch up with her family. She had decided to take the bus into Swansea and then travel by train. It was generous, kind-hearted Amy who had given her the fare and some food for her journey. She had been sleeping in one of Farmer Leighton’s barns, refusing Nelly’s invitation to stay at the cottage, insisting that houses were creepy places to sleep in.
‘I slept in a house once,’ she had explained to Nelly and George, ‘but that I’ll never
do again. My littlest chavy woke in the morning crying and asking who was the man who kept coming and sitting on her bed. Now there was no one in that house but her and me. Don’t tell me houses aren’t haunted, for I know full well that they are. Barns are warmed and sweetened by the breath of animals and ’tis only their spirits that roam across the straw and hay and watch you while you sleep. And my ancestors who guard us, of course. But they can’t guard us when we’re enclosed in bricks and cement. No, you’ll never get me in a house of a night.’
Now she was leaving. George smiled and hugged the small, wiry, dark-skinned woman.
‘I wish you weren’t leaving, Clara,’ he said.
‘You don’t need me no longer and there’s others who do.’ She stood on the platform of the bus and waved until Nelly and George were lost to her view around a bend in the road.
Nelly wasn’t working that day. Amy’s wedding was an excuse for most of the village to abandon their usual tasks and the celebrations began early. Phil was smiling stupidly when he arrived with the post more than two hours later than usual.
‘’Ere, Phil, I thought you was to be best man?’
‘Don’t worry, Nelly, I’ll be there as sober as… what is it you’re supposed to be as sober as?’
‘You’d better have some black coffee or you’ll be turning up at the wrong church,’ George laughed, spooning coffee powder into a cup.
‘All right, and one of Nelly’s cakes to soak up the whisky I had at Victor’s house.’
‘And that’s not all you’ve had.’
‘It’s all I remember having,’ Phil replied seriously. He thanked them profusely, walked up the path, came back for his sack of letters, smiled even more stupidly, then mounted his bicycle. He was singing as he rode down the lane.
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