The Emerald Valley (49 page)

A small strangled sound escaped him and she realised he was crying.

‘
Why
, Huw?' she demanded.

‘I told you. I don't want you to go out with
him.
' The words were barely audible, muffled by his hands as he rubbed at his face and running nose. ‘He's hateful – and I saw you … you and him …'

‘You were spying on us, weren't you?'

‘No, I …'

‘You
were
! I saw you at the window.'

‘I heard the car and looked out.' He snuffled. ‘And I hate him!
I hate him!
'

He looked so pathetic standing there, black dust from the coal smeared in dirty streaks across his wet face, and her anger died.

‘Why do you hate him so?' she asked softly.

‘Because …'

‘Because he was angry with you when he found you in his shed?'

He shook his head, not answering.

‘Then why?'

‘Because …' A long pause, and he covered his eyes with his forearm. ‘Because I don't want him to take you away.'

‘Take me away … ?' she repeated, not understanding at first, then slowly his meaning seeped through. Huw was jealous. No … more. He was afraid. She was his haven now, the one thing to cling to in an alien world, and he saw Ralph Porter as a threat to all that.

‘Oh, Huw,' she said softly, melting inside with a blend of love and pity and pride. She had thought his behaviour was evidence of her failure, but it wasn't. Just the opposite, it was because she had succeeded – succeeded far more than she had dared hope. He needed her. But he was so insecure, so terribly
lost
, that he could not bear to share her even for an hour.

‘Huw, come here,' she said gently.

He looked at her, half-afraid, from behind the crook of his arm.

‘Come here,' she said again and held out her arms to him.

Still he hesitated – then, slowly, sheepishly, he came towards her. She took him into her embrace, holding his thin body close, oblivious of the coal-dust that rubbed off onto her dressing-gown, and felt him shake with sobs.

‘Silly boy. You silly, silly boy.' But she spoke with sadness now and not reproof. ‘There's nothing for you to be afraid of, honestly.'

‘I thought you would send me away …' His words were staccato hiccoughs.

‘Of course I wouldn't send you away!'

‘
He
would.'

‘He couldn't, Huw. You're part of my family now.'

‘Not … like the girls are.'

Above his head she raised her eyes heavenward. ‘Just like the girls!'

But she could sense that nothing she could say would convince him. He had been hurt too much, his world overturned too forcibly. Had he ever seen his mother with other men, she wondered? Was there some link in his child's mind between that and losing her? His mother had died, of course. She had not deserted him, but perhaps he had somehow made the connection and seen it as some kind of inevitable punishment. But whether or not that was the case, Ralph Porter presented a threat to him that he could not bear. And at such times he hit out in the only way he knew, creating havoc and causing damage, desperately screaming for attention although until he was completely broken he did not know how to plead.

‘It's very early still,' she said softly. ‘I think you should go back to bed for a little while.'

He clung to her, shivering … a ghost of the surly, defiant boy he could sometimes be. She pushed him gently up the stairs and into his room, where she helped him out of his dirty clothes and into bed. That would be more dirty sheets to launder, but no matter. This was not the time to insist on washing, she knew.

‘Try to get some sleep now.' She smoothed back his hair gently and dropped a kiss on his forehead.

‘Stay with me … please …'

She dropped down to crouch beside the bed, his hand held in hers; he lay still, snuffling occasionally, but less and less frequently as the minutes ticked by. She was cold, now, and cramped, but dared not move away until at last his breathing became deeper and more even. Then she disentangled his fingers from hers and pulled the sheet up to cover him.

Amy rose awkwardly. Her eyes felt heavy and her head thick, but there would be no more sleep for her tonight. Soon dawn would be breaking, another cold January day, but before that she had much to do clearing up the mess downstairs in the living-room.

In the doorway she paused to look back at him and a mist of warmth and pity suffused her. He was in her keeping, this child. Whatever needed to be done to repair the damage to his young life, she must do it.

With a sigh, Amy closed the door after her and went downstairs to begin another day.

Over the next few days Amy found herself thinking constantly of the problem of making Huw feel more secure, but only one of the ideas which occurred to her seemed to present any real and lasting solution.

The Adoption Act had become law in the New Year – perhaps if she could legally adopt him he might feel, in his own words, as much one of the family as the girls. What that would entail and how to set about it she was not sure, so at the first opportunity she made an appointment to see Arthur Clarence, the solicitor.

It was a cold, bright January day, but little sun seemed to find its way into the frowsty office and Amy thought that working here, day after day, year in year out, it was small wonder that Arthur Clarence seemed as dry, dusty and dull as the leather-bound books that lined the walls or the piles of deeds tied up with pale pink tapes which were stacked against the desk and in every corner.

‘Well, Mrs Roberts, you are interested in the new Adoption Act, is that it?' Arthur Clarence's voice too was dry, scratchy as an old twig. ‘It's a good piece of legislation, so far as I can tell, and should regularise matters in a good many homes. But I'm not at all sure that it will be of any help to you.'

‘Why not?' Amy asked. ‘I have the care of Huw Griffiths and I simply want to “regularise” it, as you put it.'

‘But it's not that simple, Mrs Roberts,' stated the solicitor.

Amy shifted impatiently. Of course nothing ever
was
simple to Arthur Clarence; it was from complicating things that he had made his money.

‘I want legal custody of Huw,' she explained. ‘I don't want him to think I can turn him out if I feel like it, or that anyone else can take him away. He's very insecure and I believe adoption would give him a feeling of permanence. And in case you think I haven't thought this over very carefully, I have. I'm quite prepared to be solely responsible for him until he grows up.'

‘Very commendable.' But he said it looking down his nose, all the same, as if his approval was lip-service only. ‘Nevertheless, from my understanding of it, I do not believe the new legislation allows you to be considered in this way.'

‘Why not?' Amy asked huffily.

Arthur Clarence shuffled papers in front of him, searching for the relevant details.

‘In order to put yourself up to the court as a prospective adoptive parent, you have to satisfy a number of conditions. How old are you, Mrs Roberts?'

‘How old?' Amy bristled again, then thought better of it. ‘I'm twenty-four.'

‘As I thought. An adoption order may not be made where the applicant is under the age of twenty-five years. And there is more. The boy is eight, you say? That means there is an age difference of only sixteen years between you. The restrictions are such that even if you were twenty-five years old – which I admit you will be next year …' he paused to smile dryly at his own joke, ‘ … you would not be permitted to adopt a child less than twenty-one years younger than yourself.'

‘But that's stupid! I shall never be more than sixteen years older than Huw!'

‘Exactly.' Arthur Clarence pursed his lips together and pushed his spectacles up on his nose. ‘There is an exception. If the applicant – yourself – and the child – Huw – were within the permitted degrees of consanguinity.'

‘Con-sang-
what?
'

‘Consanguinity.' He rolled the term off his tongue with obvious pleasure. ‘The relationships as set out in the Book of Common Prayer which preclude marriage between members of a family.'

‘You mean if Huw and I were related?'

‘Precisely. But you are not.'

Amy swallowed. She remembered how as a child she had once come upon – and read with fascination – a table in a prayer book that listed all the people a man or a woman may not marry, but the details now eluded her. Could it be that Llew's relationship with Huw would make it possible for her to adopt him? She didn't know. Oh, it would be awful to have to sit here and admit it to this pompous old stuffed shirt, but if that was the only way …

‘Supposing he was my husband's son,' she said haltingly, ‘does that come under – what did you call it – consanguinity?'

‘Yes, I believe it does. But surely you are not suggesting … ?'

She pinched her lips together and looked at him squarely. ‘Yes, Mr Clarence.'

Behind his spectacles his eyes went beady and for a moment he appeared to be uncharacteristically lost for words.

‘Would that mean I could adopt Huw?' she persisted.

‘Well, yes, but …' Arthur Clarence was beginning to recover himself. ‘Are you certain of this, Mrs Roberts?'

‘I'm satisfied it's true, yes.'

‘But proof … do you have any proof?'

Her heart sank. ‘Not really. I think Llew's family all know it's true, and I know Llew paid money towards his upkeep after the man Huw called his father died.'

‘But your husband was not named as Huw's father on his birth certificate?'

‘No.' She had obtained that when his old home in Wales was broken up and knew that Huw's father was registered as Idris James.

‘Well, then, I foresee difficulties,' Arthur Clarence said with satisfaction. ‘To prove your consanguinity might be difficult – nay, impossible. The court would have to be convinced that such a claim was true and not just a fabrication invented by you in order to press the matter through. I think it very unlikely you would succeed.'

‘But surely it would be worth trying?' she persisted.

‘Would it? I'm not sure. It would not be a very pleasant experience, having accusations against your late husband bandied about in this way and his – uh – behaviour analysed and discussed. You would have to bring what witnesses you could, would you not, and they would have to testify as to what they knew of the matter … it could cause a public scandal and as I'm sure you know, Hillsbridge is rather short of topics of conversation at present.'

Amy felt her heart sink. He was right, frowsty old campaigner that he was. If the details of the hearing became public property, they would spread like wildfire. Mam would be dreadfully upset, Llew's mother and Eddie would never forgive her and there might be repercussions on the business. Most important of all, Huw himself would become the centre of attention. There would be no way she could keep the truth from him. And who knew what additional strain it would place on him to learn suddenly and shockingly that the man he had always called ‘Dad' was not in fact his real father at all? It might prove the last, disastrous straw.

‘I do urge you to consider this most carefully,' Arthur Clarence continued. ‘Don't leap into doing something you may live to regret. Far be it from me to decide for you, of course, but is it so very bad to continue as you are? The boy has been placed in your care – why not leave it at that? Why stir up a hornets'nest when there is no need?'

Amy nodded, seeing the sense in what he was saying. She only wanted to do what was best for Huw and if all the details of his past life and parentage came out into the open, it could make matters worse rather than better.

‘I'll leave you to think it over,' Arthur Clarence said, winging the interview to a skilful close.

As she rose, Amy heard herself say, ‘You won't tell anyone what I've told you, will you?'

‘I shall treat it as a professional confidence, of course.'

But the solicitor was smiling slightly. Amy's words had confirmed to him that her mind was already made up and she did not want the truth made public. She would be taking no further action in the matter of adoption and the knowledge was a relief to him.

As he had said, something like this was certain to cause a scandal. Mr Edwin Roberts would be far from pleased to have his brother's name dragged through the mire – and Mr Edwin Roberts was a very good client of Arthur's.

As Amy entered the yard gates she saw a Morris motor car drawn up to the office steps and a figure pacing about outside, glancing pointedly at the watch which hung just below the third button of his waistcoat.

Sam Gain from the Quarry Company.

He saw Amy coming and strode across the yard to meet her. ‘Morning, Mrs Roberts. You're here, then.'

‘Yes. I'm sorry – have you been waiting long?' Amy had sensed annoyance in Sam Gain's manner and was anxious to smooth the ruffled feathers. The quarry company was her longest standing contract.

‘Long enough. I was surprised to find the place unattended.' He fixed her squarely. ‘It would explain a thing or two though, I suppose.'

‘What do you mean?'

Sam glanced at his watch again, dropped it and thrust his hands into his pockets.

‘I suppose I might as well come straight out with it. I shall be late for my next appointment if I take time to beat about the bush – and lateness is one thing I can't abide. That's the reason I'm here.'

‘Lateness … ?' The penny dropped and she said sharply, ‘Are you trying to tell me we have not been on time with your loads, Mr Gain?'

‘That's right; it's taking too long these days. When Herbie Button used to do my work you could depend on him being there when he should be. Now …'