The Emerald Valley (34 page)

Holding his breath, he began to turn the handle of the bedroom door … slowly, slowly, just a little at a time; then in the same stealthy manner he opened the door. At one point it squeaked, a tiny, wailing noise – and he froze, ready to rush back to bed and pull the clothes over himself again. But there was no sound from the room opposite.

He took a careful step and a board creaked. Again he froze, looking down at his feet, still encased in the hated sandals. Why hadn't he taken them off? Well, it was too late now. If he tried to take them off in the dark, he might topple over and make a real row.

Carefully he crept on, along the narrow landing and down the stairs. It was a slow, tortuous exercise. Too many of the stairs creaked, even if he kept to the very edges, and each time he froze, listening for some sign from ‘the woman's'bedroom that she had heard him.

If she comes out I shall pretend I was sleep-walking, he decided. But the house was as silent as before.

At the foot of the stairs the narrow hall led back towards the kitchen. Once that was negotiated the rest would be easy. The kitchen door was ajar and it was well away from ‘the woman's' bedroom.

Sometime during his journey down the stairs the moon must have come out from behind the clouds, for it was illuminating the kitchen with a cold whiteness. By its light Huw was able to locate his boots, standing in the corner. He unbuckled the hated sandals and thrust his feet into the boots, but they felt so stiff and restrictive that he decided for the sake of easy, quiet movement it would be best to stick to the sandals. He put them back on and strung the boots around his neck by means of a knot in the brand-new faces.

Then he looked around and the light of the moon showed him something which cheered him – the key in the back door. If he could get out this way there would be no need for a stealthy climb back up the stairs and an uncertain descent via the drainpipe.

Eagerly he tried the key and it turned, but still the door would not open. Then he noticed the heavy bolt at the top he could not reach it unaided, but had to get a chair to stand on. And oh! the noise the bolt made as he drew it! Loud enough to waken the whole house. Huw clambered down off the chair, poised for flight, but to his surprise there was no sound to indicate ‘the woman' had heard. Perhaps she was dead like Mam, he thought, and though this sent a shiver through him, the idea pleased him. Now when he turned the handle and pulled on the door once more it opened, and as the cool night air rushed in to meet him he forgot everything else in the sweet heady draught of freedom.

He had to be very careful for just a little longer, going down the drive at the side of the house which ran almost under ‘the woman's'bedroom window. Keeping close by the hedge he crept along and then, as the road opened up before him, he could no restrain himself no longer. There was a strip of grass along the edge of the pavement and the moment his feet encountered this he began to run.

A little way down the hill he saw two figures in the distance coming towards him and dodged into a gateway to hide until they had gone by. They were rolling and singing and a little the worse for drink and had not the slightest idea that he was there, crouched behind the hedge, but it made Huw nervous and he decided to get off the main road as soon as he could.

The very next turning was Porter's Hill. Huw had never been down the hill, but he knew where it ended – in the valley just the other side of the river from the railway lines. ‘The woman'had taken him to the yard where her lorries were kept and on the way back Barbara had wanted to walk up the hill, but for some reason ‘the woman' had refused. ‘No, we're not going that way. It's a private road, Babs.' ‘Me go! Me go!' Barbara had piped, and ‘the woman's'voice had gone sharp as it had when she had spoken to his mother. ‘If you do, Mr Porter will see you and come after you. Now do as I tell you, Babs!'

She had made Mr Porter sound a little like ‘the bogey man'but Huw was not going to let that stop him. He hardly supposed Mr Porter would be able to see him in the dark and even if he did, Huw was very experienced at running away from miserable old men.

As he turned into the hill, the high hedges on each side shut out the moon and the gravel crunched underneath his feet. At first he tried to run again, but the ground was too uneven when you couldn't see where you were going and he had to settle for a hurried, loping walk.

When the dark bulk of the house came into view over a slightly less unkempt section of hedge, he looked towards it warily. There were lights still burning at several of the windows, but otherwise no signs of life. Huw kept close in the shadow of the hedge and hurried on.

At the bottom of the hill he hesitated. Which way now? Hillsbridge Station was away down the valley to his left, but he was unsure whether to go there would be the best plan. It only increased his chances of getting caught before he had had the chance to get very far. But the other way to his right led eventually to Lower Midlington Pit; he had seen the chimney and the headgear towering above the trees and hedgerows, and the batch too – a long low mound of dust and waste that ran out from the hillside like a spur. With the railway so close to the pit, there were bound to be sidings – and sidings meant trucks waiting to be shunted out on to the main line. Huw knew all about trucks and sidings, for he had watched them work long enough to know the routine. His heart thumped with excitement as he ran nimbly along the lane which was fast becoming little more than a track. Once into a truck he could be away, far away from this awful place by first light. Then he could go anywhere he chose.

Or so he thought for a few blissful moments, before he remembered! The trucks would not be carrying coal or anything else from the pit at the moment. The pits were on strike!

Huw stopped, his breath coming unevenly. How could he have been so stupid as to forget something like that! Oh well, there was nothing for it, he would have to go into Hillsbridge and risk the main sidings after all.

He turned and began to trot back along the track. But this time his mind was busy with how he could find a train and stow away on it without being caught, and he forgot the potholes and large stray stones that were strewn along the way. Unexpectedly he stumbled on one of them, his foot turned and before he could save himself he had gone sprawling in the track.

At Huw's age a fall was nothing – an everyday occurrence almost – and as soon as he hit the ground he began to bounce up again, waiting for the expected stinging to begin in his hands and knees, the first sharp warning of gravel rash. Instead, as he tried to stand he was aware of a flash of red-hot pain in his ankle and with a cry he collapsed back onto the ground. Oh, but it hurt! After a moment the worst of the pain subsided and he tried again, but the instant his weight went on the foot, it was as bad as ever and he almost fell for the second time, hopping wildly on his good foot until he collided with the thorn hedge. Grasping it to save himself, the prickles went deep into his already skinned palms and at the same moment, or so it seemed, his knees began to sting so that he was a ball of pain.

Slowly he subsided, sitting on the grass beneath the hedge and gritting his teeth to keep from crying. Then, rather gingerly, he began to probe his ankle; he could tell it was swelling already, for it was bulging over the strap of his sandal. This would never have happened if he had had his boots on, Huw thought. Perhaps even now if he put them on he could walk.

He unbuckled his sandal and took the boots from around his neck. But try as he might there was no way he could force his foot into the boot, not even when he yanked the lace out right down to the toe, and the effort brought tears to his eyes again.

I've broken it, he thought, I've broken my bleeding ankle!

For a few moments he sat there in the hedge, trying to decide what to do next. He couldn't walk – but he couldn't stay here either. The night had turned chill and the cold was beginning to get to him, seeping up through the seat of his pants from the dampish grass and whispering over his bare arms. He shivered violently and the shiver seemed to throb in his ankle and set up a new and sharper burning in his gravel rash. Misery overcame Huw and for the first time for as long as he could remember, he was unable to hold back the tears. Suppressed so long, they ran in rivers down his screwed-up face while he mewed with soft sobs, as much because he was ashamed of his own babyish reaction as because of the pain. Then, after a few minutes, he snivelled convulsively and wiped his face on the back of his hand.

He was trembling with the cold now and the moment he tried to move again he noticed it. As he pulled himself to his feet, carefully refraining from putting any weight on the injured ankle, his whole body contracted … shoulders rounding in, chin drooping. With an effort he managed to keep his balance and bend to pick up his boots, stringing them round his neck again, but the sandal he left where it lay. He would not be able to get it on again either, but he was not going to be fussed carrying it.

Bracing himself, he took one short quick step on his injured foot and then a slower step with the weight on the other. He was doing it, but he would never get anywhere at this rate!

For long painful minutes he limped on, but with every step the pain became more excruciating and Huw knew he was going to have to sit down and rest. He knew the ankle could not be broken, otherwise he would have been unable to put any weight on it at all. He remembered one of his friends in Ponty breaking a leg once and the bone had stuck out through the skin.

It isn't broken, it's just sore, Huw told himself, deciding that if he could rest for a bit, then it would probably be well enough to go on again. But where to rest? The bank had proved much too cold and damp and there was nowhere – no houses, except …

He paused for a moment, collecting his breath, as the large squat outline of Valley View appeared over the hedges. A house that size was bound to have outbuildings – a coal-house, a garden shed or
something.

With renewed effort he hopped on, around the garden perimeter to the gate. The lights seemed to have been extinguished now, all but one at an upstairs window. Taking his courage in both hands, Huw opened the gate. The slight creak sounded loud in the quiet of the night, but he was now almost past caring. Keeping as far as possible into the shadow of the trees, he hopped through the lower part of the garden. It was rather overgrown and he thanked his stars for that, but when he got to what looked like a potting-shed, he was disappointed. It was a stone lean-to only, completely open to the cold night air.

Well, there was nothing for it – he would have to get closer to the house and hope he was not seen. Huw resumed his slow, painful progress. As he neared the house he noticed a small casement at the top of the kitchen window was open and wished he could take advantage of it.

Had it not been for his foot, he could have gone in and found enough food to fast him for days – and perhaps money too. But since he could barely walk, climbing was out of the question. Resigned, he hobbled on, his feet making no sound in the soft grass except for the occasional snapping of a dead twig.

The outbuildings were at the far end of the garden, a cluster of low, brick-built sheds. The first one he came to was the coal-house and not caring how dirty he would get, Huw crawled inside and pulled the door shut after him. On one side the coal was stacked high behind pieces of wooden board; as the fuel was used up, so the pieces of board would be removed one by one to lower the barrier, then with a fresh delivery they would be slotted in again to contain it. Huw never stopped to wonder at the amount of coal still being stored here even in the middle of a pit strike. He was too busy moving the buckets and shovels from the far corner and arranging a pile of sacks into a bed where he could flop down.

Even lowering himself was painful, but at least the sacks protected him from the cold stone. Now that he had stopped again, he realised just how cold he was – ‘shrammed', Mam would say. And he was tired too, his eyes beginning to drop with weariness in spite of the pain and the cold.

They would probably find him here in the morning, frozen to death, he thought sleepily, recalling a song Mam used to sing him about a boy who had died in the snow, in Switzerland … he thought it was Switzerland. A snatch of it came back to him.

Next morning by the faithful hound
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still bearing in his hand of ice,
A banner with the strange device – Exelsior!

The song always had a haunting feel to it and if the young Huw had ever experienced romance, this was it. Briefly he felt it again, as if he were the boy hero. But it was a fleeting impression only; there was nothing really very romantic about being cold and in pain. It was just horrid!

With an awkward movement Huw drew his knees up to his chin, clasping his shivering arms round them. Just a little sleep. Just for a little while. Then he would go on again …

‘What the hell are you doing here?'

Hard, powerful voice, shattering sleep; heavy hand on his shoulder.

Huw's eyes snapped open. It was daylight, sunless grey brightness angling in through the open door and cutting a flat plane across the stacked coal. But there was a figure between him and the light … tall, bulky and – to Huw – threatening.

Was this the Mr Porter the woman had warned about? Huw had no intention of waiting to find out. Like a panther he gathered himself and sprang. Nine times out of ten the suddenness of his move would have guaranteed success, but not this time. The moment he moved the pain was back, taking him by surprise; the grasp on his shoulder slackened for a moment only, then tightened, hauling him to his feet yelping like a hurt puppy.

‘Come out of there and let's have a look at you!'

Huw had never been one to give in gracefully and in the coal-house doorway he made one more attempt to escape, balancing on his good foot and lashing out with the other. But he had forgotten it was bare; his soft toes connected uselessly with the trousered leg and a shock-wave of pain reverberated to the swollen tendons. However, his yelp evoked no sympathy and the man continued to half-drag, half-carry him across the path to where a jelly of a woman stood with arms akimbo, quivering with indignation.