The Emerald Valley (6 page)

Amy said nothing. True enough, it did not seem fair. She had watched her father and her eldest brother Jim working away their lives in the pit and she knew that during the winter months they had sometimes not seen daylight from one week's end to the next. Yet they still lived in miners'cottages while it was the owner, Sir Richard Spindler, who lived in style at Hillsbridge Down House. But right or wrong, it was the way of things. There were bosses and there were workers; it was a question of knowing your place.

‘No, I'm going to be my own boss, Amy,' Llew went on, breaking into her thoughts. ‘I made up my mind about that a long time ago.'

‘But what could you do?' Amy asked.

‘I'm going to get myself a lorry and go into the haulage business.'

‘A
lorry?'

‘That's right. Horses and carts are going to be finished with soon. Motor transport is the thing of the future.'

‘But what would you carry in it?' Amy was totally nonplussed. ‘Nobody round here would want anything carried in
lorries.'

‘Well, that's where you're wrong,' Llew told her. ‘This is a very good place to start. You see this valley?' He pointed down across the green slopes. ‘They're going to put a road through here, joining Hillsbridge up with South Compton, to save having to go up South Hill and down past the cottages where your Jim lives. A straight road, straight up the valley, the same as the railway lines.'

‘Yes, I know that,' Amy said with some impatience. She had read in the
Mercury
, the local paper, about the proposed new road – a scheme to give extra jobs for the unemployed in the district, it was said. ‘But I don't see …'

‘If they're building a road, they'll need to bring in the stuff to make it.' There was enthusiasm in Llew's voice now. ‘Oh, I know they're going to use slag from the colliery waste-tips to fill in the foundations and that, they say, is going to go straight down over from South Hill Pit in trucks on an incline. But they're bound to need gravel and stone and stuff from the quarries. That's where I come in.'

‘I see,' Amy said, still only half-believing. ‘But you haven't got a lorry, Llew.'

His lips curved and for the first time he turned to look at her.

‘No, but I'm getting one next week. I'm going up to Birmingham to get it.'

‘Birmingham? Why Birmingham?'

‘Because I'm buying it from a dealer there.'

‘But you can't drive a motor, can you?'

‘No, but I can learn. What do you think of that then, Amy?'

‘I think it's lovely!' she said.

That had been the start of ‘Llew Roberts, Haulage Contractors'. Much to the amazement of Amy – and Charlotte – the lorry had materialised just as Llew had promised, and he was able to fix himself up with contracts to haul for the council, who were responsible for building the new road. For a time Llew's brother Eddie had come in on the venture. Amy had regretted that. For some reason she did not altogether trust Eddie, who had a plausible, rather sly manner, and she was glad when after some disagreement or other Llew had re-invested some of the money the council paid him to buy Eddie's lorry. That made it a two-vehicle concern, and when he managed to get a contract to haul some wood for pit-props he had to take on a driver to help him out.

‘It's a risky business,' Charlotte said, shaking her head. But Amy was absolutely delighted. On the strength of the new contracts, Llew had asked her to marry him and she had accepted. Her early doubts had all melted now – she was head over heels in love with Llew and quite convinced he was going to make a success of the enterprise. What was more, she was determined to enjoy the status that would come from being the wife of a man who owned two lorries and employed a driver and a mate. Who cared if half Hillsbridge called him ‘jumped-up'and secretly hoped to see him take a tumble? He would show them, she was certain of it – and so would she.

Not that things had worked out quite as she'd hoped of course, Amy thought, as she stood and smoked at the window of their house in Hope Terrace that evening four years later. Nothing had come easily. There had been days when Llew had worked until he was worn to a frazzle, only to have his bill defaulted on at the end of it, and nights when she had heard him pace the floor as he worried about meeting some expense or other or delivering a contract on time. There had been occasions when he had taken a gamble that had scared her out of her wits – such as when he had arranged to buy out his first copse and cut it without being sure he had a buyer. Everyone knew most of the contracts for the supply of wood for pit-props were sewn up – Ralph Porter, the timber merchant, had most of the owners and managers in his pocket – and Amy had been terrified Llew would find himself with a lot of wood on his hands and no outlet for it. But Edgar Tudgay at Lower Midlington had taken pity on him and bought the lot. Amy had had a new dress out of that – badly needed since Barbara and Maureen had come along, leaving her plumper than she had been before.

But on the whole she knew Llew was pleased.

‘It might be hard work, but it's worth it if I know it's for our benefit,' was his motto, and Amy admired him for it while trying to involve herself in the business as much as he would let her.

‘I could help with the booking, I'm sure I could!' she had suggested. ‘I always liked figures at school.' And so, more to humour her than anything, Amy felt, Llew sometimes allowed her to go to the yard and make out the delivery tickets, filling in details like ‘tare weights' and discolouring her fingers – and sometimes her face – with the ‘blue-paper'that produced the magical second and third copies.

She was never allowed to touch the accounts, however, and bills and letters concerning the business she never saw. The postman usually delivered the letters before Llew left for the yard in the mornings and he took them with him, sorting them in his little office and bringing home any private correspondence that evening. Local letters sometimes arrived by the second post, but these Llew seemed less concerned about, a fact that puzzled Amy since most of his business was conducted locally. As for important items such as insurance on the motor lorries, she had not the faintest idea as to whom they were with or what they were about even; so on that April day after colliding so disastrously with Ralph Porter's Morgan, there was nothing Amy could do but wait for Llew's return … and confess what she had done.

The cigarette burned down and she stubbed it out, her hand shaking slightly, and got up. Stupid to sit here, watching for him and getting more and more nervous. It might be hours yet before he came home and there were a hundred and one things she could be doing.

With a decisive movement Amy leaned over, pushed open the window and tipped the contents of the ashtray into the paeony bush. Then, leaving the window slightly open to let out the last of the smoke, she went back to the living-room.

It was past 10 o'clock when Amy heard the front door open. Adrenalin began pumping through her veins again as she stood up on legs suddenly trembling and switched off the crystal set she had been listening to in order to occupy her mind.

Llew must be tired. He only came in by the front door when he was past walking round to the back. And she had to tell him … oh Lord, thought Amy as she hurried through to the kitchen to return the kettle to the hob. She was just rearranging the table setting, the new loaf and the plate of cold meat, when she saw his shadow in the doorway and looked up, forcing a bright smile.

‘Hello, you're home …'

Then, as she saw the expression on his face, her voice died away. Llew only looked that way when he was very angry or very upset, and instinctively – without a word passing between them – Amy knew that somehow he had already heard what had happened to his lorry.

‘Llew – I'm sorry, truly I am …' she began, but he seemed not to hear her.

‘That stupid fool Button!' he exploded, hurling his cap at the kitchen chair, ‘What do you think he's done?'

‘It wasn't his fault …' Amy protested weakly, but Llew in full flow heard nothing.

‘Hare-brained idiot! I thought he was supposed to be a responsible man and used to motors. But I leave him in charge for one day – one day! – and when I get back, what do I find? My new lorry with the front wing buckled – and when it's only been on the road less than a week! And there's worse, it seems. It was Ralph Porter he ran into, of all people! Ralph Porter in that three-wheeler Morgan of his. It couldn't be worse. Not if he'd run into the King of England, it couldn't be!'

‘Llew …' Amy was confused. Surprising enough that Llew should have known about the accident so soon – but why should he think it was Herbie who was responsible? ‘How did you … ?'

‘Well, I saw it, didn't I, when I took my lorry back to the yard. Funny – I nearly drove it home with me, but I didn't have too much petrol. And there in the yard is my new lorry, large as life, with the fender bent and the number-plate twisted.'

‘But what makes you think it was Herbie?' Amy didn't know why she had said that, unless it was a case of anything to put off the evil moment when they would get to the crux of the conversation and she would have to confess …

‘It couldn't have been anybody else. Ivor Burge was with me,' Llew said, referring to the young ‘mate'he had taken on and was teaching to drive. ‘I tell you, Amy, I was so mad I went to see Herbie straight away. And he had the cheek to try and make light of it!'

‘Well, it was an accident …' Amy interposed.

‘I can't afford accidents like that.' Llew was loosening his collar and putting one foot on the chair to undo his boot. ‘Especially not with Ralph Porter. I'd been hoping to subcontract for him; he's bought up an entire wood out on Withydown Lane and I thought I might get in there and make enough to pay off the lorry. Fat chance I've got to do that now! His car was badly dented, according to Herbie; he had to help him push it out of the hedge – you know there's no reverse gear on those Morgans. I couldn't be bothered with it myself, but it's like a baby to him, they say. Well, I told Herbie straight – if that's the way you drive, you're no good to me.'

‘Llew!' Amy was round-eyed now. ‘You don't mean you've … ?'

‘Sacked him? Of course I have.' Llew sighed deeply and gesticulated towards the kettle which was singing on the hob. ‘For goodness'sake, Amy, stop gawping and make me a cup of tea.'

‘Oh!' said Amy, not so much trembling now as tingling all over with shock and surprise and guilt. This whole thing was much worse than she had thought: the lorry damaged before it was even paid for; Ralph Porter's pride, as well as his Morgan, dented; and a contract on which Llew had obviously been pinning a great deal lost and gone beyond recall. But all this paled before the fact that Herbie had been willing to take the blame for her – allowed Llew to sack him and still not said – though once it had got that far she supposed it had really snowballed out of his control. Funny, she had never thought he liked her much, for there was always an edge beneath the respect which made her feel he resented her. And now …

‘Llew, you can't sack Herbie,' she stated.

‘I've done it. Come on, Amy, make that pot of tea for goodness' sake.'

‘You can't sack him because it wasn't his fault.'

‘Try telling that to Ralph Porter.'

‘Llew, will you listen to me!' she cried in exasperation. ‘It wasn't Herbie driving the lorry. It was me!'

Llew sighed. ‘Amy, I'm tired, I've had a long day. Let's just forget it now, eh?'

‘I'm not making it up, Llew, just to save Herbie his job. I'm telling you the truth! Ask Ralph Porter if you don't believe me. It was me driving the lorry.'

‘But you can't!'

‘I know that now. That's why I ran into Ralph Porter, I suppose. But I thought I could. Herbie tried to stop me but I wouldn't listen …'

‘Amy, I can't believe what I'm hearing! You mean you took the lorry out on the road?'

‘Yes.'

‘After I expressly forbade you to try?'

‘Yes. I did so want to and you …'

‘I was conveniently out of the way, breaking my back to make money for you to throw away … Amy, you haven't got a driving licence!'

‘I didn't think anyone would be any the wiser …'

‘You stupid woman! Don't you realise it's against the law to drive on the road without a licence? Oh my Lord, suppose the insurance won't stand it … That's why Herbie tried to cover up for you, I suppose.'

His hands made fists, the knuckles white, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl of rage. In the four years she had known him, Amy had never seen him so angry and she cowered away as his fist came up, convinced he was going to strike her.

‘Oh, Llew …' she sobbed.

His hands fastened on the curved back of the cane chair she had set at the table ready for him to have his supper and he lifted it effortlessly, swinging it behind him. The edge of the tablecloth went with it, a plate skidded off the edge of the table and smashed on the flagstone floor and a jug of milk overturned, swamping the loaf of bread on the china bread-plate.

‘Llew, please!' Amy screamed, believing for a moment that he was going to lay about her with the chair. ‘I'm sorry!
I'm sorry!'

As she said it he brought the chair sharply round, throwing it as hard as he could across the kitchen. Amy stepped smartly aside and it smashed into the stone sink, splintering a leg and falling drunkenly to the floor. There was a moment's complete silence and then Llew turned, beating helplessly at the door-frame with his fist.

The moment of danger passed, Amy looked wildly round at the scene of destruction for which she knew she was to blame.

‘And what good do you think that did?' she demanded boldly.