The Emerald Valley (37 page)

It was the same over the next few days, a constant nagging worry at the back of his mind. Every morning he woke fearful of what news he would hear, yet still unable to bring himself to do the unforgivable and ‘split'on Ewart.

He was ashamed too of his outburst at Margaret, but although he duly presented himself at her home and made a token apology, he was still preoccupied and moody and when she tried to tease him out of it, it was all he could do to keep from snapping at her again. What did the strike mean to her really? She was cushioned against it, still going to school as if nothing was happening, still living the same charmed life with her concerned yet uninvolved parents. Working for the Labour Party was all very well, but what did they know about it? Torn apart by his divided loyalties, Harry felt he hated the whole world.

And then one morning came the news he had dreaded. Charlotte brought it back from Hillsbridge along with the day's shopping of meagre striker's family fare – broken biscuits, subsidised bread and a neck of mutton that would have to do three meals at the least.

‘What do you think? Last night somebody tried to blow up the pit!'

Harry went cold.

‘Blow up the pit? Whatever do you mean?' James enquired.

‘Middle Pit!' Charlotte said. ‘They were down at Middle Pit last night with explosives. Luckily the bosses had put in a night-watchman to try and catch the men who've been going in and nicking coal and he saw the shadow of a man, crouching about where he shouldn't have been.'

Harry tried to open his mouth to say something, but no words would come.

‘Who was it then?' With an effort, James pulled himself bolt upright.

‘I couldn't say,' Charlotte unbuttoned her coat and spread her hands out to the warmth of the fire. ‘When he realised he'd been spotted, he made a run for it and got clean away. But they say the explosives he had there would have done so much damage the pit could have been shut down for good.'

‘Well, well, damned fools, what be they going to do next?' James wheezed.

‘What do you think about it, Harry?' Charlotte turned to him and Harry managed a noncommittal shrug.

‘Don't
you
think it's stupid?' she pressed him and when he still said nothing, she clucked and tossed her head impatiently. ‘I don't know, I'm sure, what the younger generation are coming to. You try to teach them right from wrong and still … It'll be a tidy state of affairs when things are left to them if you ask me!'

‘I'm going down to take a look at my pigeons,' Harry said, not wanting to argue. He was too shaky with relief that things had turned out this way. Not only had the attempt been thwarted and the explosives were now back in safe hands, but Ewart had escaped being caught and taken to court. It was the best possible result, but it was no thanks to him. He had known all about it, had been worried about it, but he'd done absolutely nothing.

For the first time it came to Harry that wanting to further the cause was not nearly as easy as he had once expected it to be. Things were not clear-cut black and white, with good on one side and bad on the other, and becoming involved had many facets he had not anticipated.

It meant making decisions and judgements, sometimes leading, sometimes making yourself unpopular, weighing up rights and wrongs and searching your conscience for the right action or inaction. Fervour was all very well, but it had to be tempered by many other qualities too.

Will I ever be able to do it? Harry wondered.

But for the moment at least the crisis had passed. The only explosions this November would come from the ‘bangers'on Bonfire Night. And for the moment Harry could only be grateful.

Although it was still only November, the post office a Withydown was already getting busy for Christmas. But as she worked, Rosa Clements found her mind wandering time and again to Ted.

Perhaps, she thought, it's time to force a showdown. Perhaps, if Ted comes home for Christmas, I ought to say something about the way I feel, even if I
do
frighten him off. Because we can't go on this way for ever.

She had seen him twice since the June day when he had turned up unannounced, but nothing had changed and the optimism that had sustained her through the past years of waiting was beginning to wear a little thin.

The spark was still there between them when they were together, it was true, the wonderful soaring happiness that was enough to make her forget the lonely times both behind and ahead of her. But now it died too quickly, leaving her hollow and aching, and the memories were tarnished by doubt that Ted really cared for her at all. How could he, if he could leave her so easily and for so long? Was the truth of the matter that he still cared only for Becky and she, Rosa, was still a stop-gap?

Other memories came to haunt her now, sharp reminders of the hurt she had felt when the truth had become too obvious to allow excuses and explanations, and Rosa thought: I have to know. I have to have something to hold on to. If he does care, I can wait for him for ever. But if not …

‘Will you be going home to Hillsbridge for Christmas this year, Rosa?' asked Mrs Cray, the elderly widowed owner of the post office.

And Rosa, her heart thumping with the momentousness of her

decision, her small, darkly-beautiful face serious, replied without

hesitation: ‘Yes, Mrs Cray. I'll be going home.'

In the small makeshift office at the yard, Amy was poring over the books, her fingers stained from the blue-paper, her eyes aching from squinting at the figures and trying to make them tally to produce a more acceptable result. Things were not good, she thought. Ticking over, but not good. By the time she had paid Herbie and Ivor Burge and settled the account for rent due, there would not be much left over again. It was no use pretending; unless things soon took a turn for the better, she would have to do what she had been trying so hard to avoid and sell the house.

Although she had known from the beginning that this was probably inevitable and had tried to reconcile herself to it, still she had viewed the sale of the house as a last resort. It was not only the emotional upheaval of getting rid of the place she and Llew had chosen and lived in together, but also the practical difficulties of looking for something else suitable and then actually finding the time to move. Her days were already fully occupied from dawn to dusk and beyond.

But yesterday, quite by chance, she had heard of a cottage for sale in Batch Row which, although it was much smaller than her own house, at least had three bedrooms. When she had heard about it her stomach had seemed to fall away. It was all very well to talk blithely about selling up while she had nowhere to move to – a different thing altogether when it became a real possibility.

But there was no doubt about it, a smaller house would mean money in the bank and that in its turn would represent welcome security.

Amy glanced up, looking out across the yard to where one of the lorries stood idle, shrouded in November greyness. That was the trouble, of course, trying to run the business at half strength. Since Llew had bought the second lorry everything was geared to full employment for the two, or something approaching that, with Llew himself driving one and Herbie, when it was required, the other. But now to use both Amy would have to take on another man – and to be able to pay out extra wages, she must be assured of enough work to cover them. At the moment, that seemed like crying for the moon.

Biting her lip, Amy pored over the figures once more. In spite of the continuing strike she had managed to keep one lorry fairly well occupied. The hauling of gravel for the quarry company had now become a fairly regular thing from that first uncertain job had come another … and another. But it was on a day-to-day basis with no contract involved, and already she waited with heart in mouth for Herbie to return each afternoon, anxious to know whether he had been asked to report back next morning.

‘I reckon there's a couple more months in it at least,' he had told her. ‘It will take them that long to finish the new road this lot's for.' But still she was afraid to depend on the work continuing. It only needed the quarry company to decide it was worth their while to purchase another lorry of their own – and that would be the end of it. Meanwhile, she was having to turn down the occasional casual job for the mill or a local farmer, because there was no one to drive the second lorry.

If only I could drive it myself! Amy thought, but she knew that would not solve her problem. Driving for fun was one thing, hauling was quite another. A man's strength was needed for loading and unloading and tough as she liked to think herself, Amy knew she couldn't do it.

No, if ever she was to expand enough to make the business secure, she needed another hand – two ideally. Young, untrained lads would suffice. Herbie had indicated that Ivor Burge had served his apprenticeship as a mate and was now competent to drive himself – but even young lads needed to be paid and the money she would get for the house would ensure there was enough in the bank to pay them, even if the lorry was sometimes standing idle. It was no use putting it off any longer. The house would have to go. And she really ought to go and look at the cottage in Batch Row right away before anyone else snapped it up. Not that that was very likely with money so short in Hillsbridge, but you never could tell.

Her mind made up, Amy snapped shut the ledger and scraped back her chair. As she emerged from the office a chill wind whistled across the yard, making her shiver, and she thought of the new winter coat Barbara needed. She had seen one in the Co-op, a pretty blue wool with a Peter Pan collar, but so far had been unable to afford it. Well, sell the house and she could.

And Barbara was not the only one who needed a winter coat; Amy remembered as a guilty afterthought. Huw would need one too and a boy's coat was likely to cost twice as much, unless she could persuade someone who did dressmaking to run one up for him …

Deep in thought, she left the yard and crossed the river bridge. Then, after listening carefully to make sure no trains were coming, she ducked under the wire and picked her way across the railway line to the lane that led to Batch Cottages. It was not well made-up. Dust kicked beneath her feet and as she drew level with the first of the cottages her heart sank. They looked so poky compared with her house – compared with Mam's even – the windows small and dark, the doors warped, the paintwork peeling. Three bedrooms? I can't imagine any of them being big enough to swing a cat in! Amy thought.

Nearer still and her depression deepened. The washing, strung up on lengths of line rope, looked grey and ragged and the children playing outside were grubby and bedraggled looking. Only determination kept her going until she reached the one cottage she had heard was for sale – the middle one of seven, even more dilapidated than the others if such a thing were possible.

The door was closed – no children were playing outside here. But as soon as she stopped and knocked they appeared from nowhere, a straggle of grimy boys and a little girl, standing in a silent circle to look at her. She knocked again and the door was opened by a tired elderly woman in a faded grubby overall.

‘Yes?'

Amy opened her mouth to speak and breathed in the overpowering smell of cooked cabbage that had emanated with the woman from the cottage. She almost gagged, then recovered herself.

‘I understand you want to sell your house?'

The woman looked her up and down, squinting.

‘I don't want to, I've
got
to! My hubby bought it when the owners put the Rank up for sale and now he's gone I can't keep it up on my own. Why?'

‘I'm interested in it.'

‘Oh well, in that case …' The woman stood aside and Amy went into the cottage. No hall but straight into the living-room, and the smell of cooking cabbage so strong it almost took her breath.

She was amazed that anyone should own their own house here, but of course, most of them did not. When the Rank went up for sale they generally passed from one landlord to another and continued to live their drab, hand-to-mouth lives – kept poor by low wages, endless strings of children and menfolk who preferred to spend their meagre earnings in the pub and at the bookie's office rather than on their families. Mam would have a fit, she thought, remembering her mother's admonitions when she had been at school to ‘keep away from the children from Batch Row'. ‘You could catch all sorts,' she used to say, and remembering how often they had come to school with their heads shaved after a visit from the ‘flea lady', Amy had known her mother was not referring only to germs. Now, she shuddered at the thought of her own children being associated with Batch Row.

She wouldn't let them play outside with the others, of course, but still the stigma would be there …

With the door shut the room was as dark as Amy had thought it would be – dark, stale and airless. There was a fire burning under the hob, the cabbage water spitting steadily into it, and Amy looked around trying to imagine her own furniture packed in. There would only be room for half of it – just the table and enough chairs for them to sit on, and perhaps at a push the sideboard. But that would be all. The china cabinet would have to go … and Llew's wing chair. Amy had heard of families eating in relays because they could not all sit down at once – here, it was easy to see why.

‘This is it, then,' the woman said.

‘Can I see the scullery?' Amy tried to keep her voice bright, but she felt it was coming from her boots.

The woman let her go ahead into the narrow passage that served as a scullery. A working surface formed by a board laid down on wooden cupboards ran the length of it, dominated by a bowl of potato pickings. Clearly there was no running water, but Amy had not expected there to be. The water would come from a communal tap across the yard, alongside the shared washhouse; and she knew the toilets were even further away – shared, free-standing wooden sheds half-way down the gardens.