A Welcome in the Valley Read online

  A Welcome in the Valley

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Copyright

  A Welcome in the Valley

  Grace Thompson

  To Bowman, and all our family

  Map

  Chapter One

  Nelly Luke woke early and was immediately wide awake. She was not the sort to lie there wasting time trying to coax back sleep which had fled too far. She slithered out of bed, lowering her feet straight into the furry slippers waiting for them and stretched inelegantly, with arms behind her head, her neck bending to one side and then the other. A loud yawn changed to a laugh as anxious barking from below urged her to hurry.

  ‘All right, Bobby an’ Spotty, give us a chance will yer?’ She pulled off the shapeless nightgown that had once been white and pulled a pair of pink, fleecy-lined bloomers on to her ample hips. She added a jumper, lisle stockings held up with bands of elastic, socks, a thin dress without sleeves and finally a loose, navy dress. Still yawning and stretching and talking to the dogs, she went down the curved staircase into her living room.

  Opening the door for the impatient dogs she laughed as they pushed against each other in their haste to get out. Looking up at the slowly lightening sky she nodded approval at the weather prospects for the day. ‘Rain’s stopped,’ she said to herself, ‘thank Gawd fer that.’

  The fire in the oven range looked dead but the removal of ash and some encouragement from a few sticks soon made it glow. She shook the kettle experimentally and, hearing water sloshing about, turned the swivel on which it rested over the heat and sat down to wait patiently for it to boil, a Donald Peers record on her wind-up gramophone.

  The dogs were large, long-legged and boisterous. Cross Alsatian and Pyrenean mountain dog, Nelly joked when anyone asked. In fact they were part sheepdog and part labrador; the rest was a mystery. They bustled in, leaping on to the chair to lick Nelly, then settled in front of the fire, blocking the heat from her legs and completely covering the rag mat, heads on her feet, their long tails tapping gently to show their pleasure that the night-hours without her were over.

  After drinking several cups of tea, Nelly set off for the woods. This was another part of her life from which Spotty and Bobby were excluded. Not having running water in the cottage, the woods were her lavatory and she always spent the necessary moments alone.

  It was still barely seven o’clock and the early February morning was chill.

  ‘Come on then, boys.’ She set off again, leaving the door open, the kettle re-filled from the tap in the lane and warming over the now bright fire. With the dogs barking their delight she pushed through the garden gate and into the trees.

  There was a narrow, unmade track that passed her cottage, that led in one direction to the main road and the village of Hen Carw Parc, and on the other, by a wandering route, past the edge of the council estate and into the town of Llan Gwyn. Few people passed her gate, but those who did invariably called in to share a cup of tea and a bite of food.

  She looked up and down the lane in the hope of seeing someone to talk to before heading into the trees towards the old ruin of a castle where the dogs loved to run and hunt rabbits. She took her time, savouring the freshness of the newly washed trees. There was no hurry; Mrs French for whom she ‘did’ would not expect her until nine o’clock.

  The castle was nothing more than a collection of walls gradually disappearing under the insidiously creeping brambles and bracken. She thought of how it had looked two years previously when it was used as a centre for the Festival of Britain celebrations.

  Hordes of people from the village and the council estate had appeared with every imaginable tool and hacked away at the invading plants, painted the walls with a wash of white and even put a new roof on the buildings that had once been the castle kitchens, to use as dressing rooms for the players who came to entertain.

  Soon they would come again to prepare the place for the Coronation Party planned for the Saturday before June the third. Nelly was excited at the prospect of crowds passing her gate. She smiled as she remembered the school-children as they had sung rousing and patriotic songs and performed a pageant of the history of Wales, supporting large banners that somehow managed to defy the wind that had tried to whip them out of their tiny hands. Soon the preparations would begin again. Committees would be formed and the measuring, flag-making and plans for fancy dress would fill the minds of everyone in the country. Yes, she thought, 1953 would be a year to remember.

  She sat on a low wall and watched as the two dogs sniffed and followed trails between the wet bracken and the rocks, along animal paths that told them exciting things they were unable to share with her. Suddenly they lifted their heads and stared towards the repaired kitchen block. Nelly screwed up her brown eyes and followed the direction of their gaze.

  She stayed as still as the dogs for several minutes, patient and hopeful of seeing a rabbit or a fox or something rarer. But instead of the good fortune of sighting a wild animal about its business, a man stood up, stared at her for a moment and walked away.

  ‘Bleedin’ ’ell, you give me a fright!’ she shouted, her cockney accent more pronounced than normal. The man ignored her and walked further into the crumbling buildings as if unaware of her having spoken.

  She caught glimpses of him and noticed the collar and tie before he wrapped his scarf more tightly around his face. He wore a brown overcoat which was much too large for him, and the belt, which had been tied instead of slipped through the buckle, dangled until it almost touched the grass. The coat was long and its hem too was lost in the damp grass. A brown trilby sat at an angle on his reddish brown hair.

  ‘’Ere, you lost or somethin’? Got a cuppa tea back in the ’ouse if you want one,’ she coaxed. The man raised his left hand in salute but did not turn or even change his steady pace in acknowledgement.

  ‘The village is the other way. Where you ’eading?’ She was standing now and shouting loudly. The dogs, who had been growling low and threateningly, began to bark but they did not leave Nelly to follow the mysterious man, but moved closer to her in a protective way. Nelly shrugged and called the dogs. ‘Come on, boys, it’s time fer some grub. Then it’s off to Mrs French.’

  * * *

  Monica French picked up the clock on her dressing table to dust it. This was one room she preferred to attend to herself. Nelly was careful and rarely broke anything, but Mrs French hated to see Nelly’s dirt-grained hands touching her special things. She took note of the time; ten minutes to nine, Nelly would be here soon. She tensed with the expectation of the shouted proclamation from the kitchen door. Nelly could never wait until she came inside before telling her she had arrived. Mrs French wondered, not for the first time, why Nelly’s London accent was as strong as when she had arrived in the village, thirteen years before.

  In spite of her briefly felt disapproval, Monica French smiled. Nelly was not like the servants she had before the war had changed everything, but she was a good worker, happy to have around, even if she was rather loud.

  Replacing the clock with its broderie anglaise face, she picked up the photograph of her d
aughter, Rosemary. The photograph had been taken in black and white but an artist had added colour, to show the beautiful auburn hair and rosy cheeks of the child. The eyes were brown and Rosemary was smiling happily.

  Mrs French sighed. Rosemary had grown up so quickly and now lived far away from her in Cardiff. It was only on rare occasions that they met. Another photograph standing beside it was of a young man in army uniform, the last one she had taken of her son, Alan.

  She picked up the photograph in its brass frame and stared at it. Alan: missing, presumed killed, amid the insanity of a war he didn’t understand and which he didn’t want to fight. The photograph showed him smiling, his arm around his fiancée, Fay Lewis, who was soon to marry another young man. Johnny Cartwright had been fortunate enough to miss the call up, being a few years too young.

  She held the photograph to her chest and opened the wardrobe door. Inside was the suit she had bought with clothing coupons scrounged and saved and illegally bought, to wear at Alan and Fay’s wedding. They were to have married on Alan’s next leave, but he never came home again.

  Dare she go and watch Fay and Johnny married? Could she risk upsetting everyone by her presence? What if she were to burst into tears at seeing Alan’s girl at the side of Johnny Cartwright, dressed in white and promising to love him and cherish him ‘Till death do us part’? Better not to go.

  She closed the wardrobe door and then shook her head, angry with herself for her selfishness. Fay had a right to a good and full life. She would invite them both to lunch before the wedding. She began looking through cupboards and drawers. There must be a few things she could spare them from her stored linen, to help them start.

  ‘Mrs French dearie, it’s me, I’m ’ere.’ Nelly’s call broke her mood and she replaced the photograph and started down the stairs, a smile of welcome on her calm face. Brown eyes met brown eyes, one pair composed, the other with a hint of mischief in them. Nelly always looked about to burst into loud laughter, her teeth, exposed by her smile, were crooked. Some, on the left hand side of her mouth were missing altogether, adding to the look of saucy expectation.

  ‘Start upstairs, shall I?’ she asked, tying the dogs to a line post.

  * * *

  The church where Fay Lewis and Johnny Cartwright were to be married was at the eastern end of the village. Hen Carw Parc sprawled along the high street, groups of houses and small terraced cottages with gaps in between, where wild flowers gave a riotous display in the months of summer, but were now just yellow areas of fallen grasses. Next to the church was the school and the church hall, the buildings linked together in age and in the stones from which they were built. Passing westwards past the school, a row of cottages came next with a matching row across the road. They were identical, differing only in the curtains that hung in the small windows, showing the individuality of the occupants.

  A field then, before the winding, narrow road that led up to Nelly’s cottage at the edge of the wood surrounding the old castle ruins. Past the turning, more houses but these were grander and larger. One, the oldest and most imposing, was owned by Mrs French. Behind it, snuggling into the band of trees that followed the road for a while, were the houses more recently built, in what had once been the grounds of Monica French’s house.

  As Nelly and Mrs French set about the occasional weekday tasks, Fay Lewis walked around the empty church and tried to imagine herself standing there, before the flower-decked altar as the bride of Johnny Cartwright. The sun shone through the plain glass of the window recently replaced after enemy bombs from a bomber way off course had shattered the ancient coloured illustration of the Shepherd with His sheep. It shone on Fay’s shining, blonde hair which fell in an under roll to rest on the shoulders of the grey suit she wore. The blue eyes seemed to match exactly the frilled blouse and the smart, lace-trimmed hat, and the high-heeled shoes and the handbag held in her hand. She looked slim, elegant and expensive. That she was successful was obvious, the fact that she was unhappy, less so.

  The flowers on the altar had not yet been replaced since the previous Sunday. Daffodils and the slender branches of hazel with the yellow catkins drooped sadly in the large vase. The stems of the daffodils arched low, spilling yellow piles of dust onto the polished surfaces. The smell was cloying and redolent of death. Fay shivered and walked to the doorway and the generative sun.

  She looked at the graves; all but a few overgrown and neglected after the winter months, the sun shining on the memorials with their long forgotten names. No grave for Alan. Only a name on a plaque to say he had lived, and been loved. Yet this place had echoed with his laughter. Here they had hunted for wild flowers to arrange for her mother’s delight, had listened to birdsong and thrilled to their first kiss.

  Memories, she thought. Why are they so painful? They had enjoyed every sun-filled, joyous day, yet it was an agony to remember. Now they were all gone: her mother, killed in a stupid accident; her father, dead soon after from the shock of it; the child who was Alan, vanished; the child she had been, no more than a stranger she had once known.

  She thought of the small cottage in which she would soon start her married life with Johnny and his family and stared about her, wishing things could magically return to how they had been. She clenched her fists and pressed her lips together, trying to force herself to forget the doubts and imbibe herself with the excitement of her forthcoming marriage. Wasn’t that what every woman wanted, deep down? Marriage, a loving husband and children? Wasn’t second best better than nothing? Guilt filled her, and shame, that she should think of Johnny that way. She glanced back through the church door and silently promised to give him all her love, to forget her dreams and begin to build new memories with him at the centre of them, from the moment of their wedding in a little over one week’s time.

  In a corner of the old building she opened her handbag and began repairing her makeup. Her eyes were critical of the slightly reddened lids, her lips pursed in disapproval of giving way to self-pity.

  ‘Fay? Fay? You there, love?’

  She snapped the compact shut and went along the path to where a puzzled Johnny stood, his bus purring quietly beside the hedge of yew.

  He was a small man, but he gave her the sensation of being protected. His slim body seemed ready to charge into action on her behalf the moment he was needed. He was quick to rise to anger when someone was unfairly treated and prepared to fight in a good cause. Yet with her he was never anything but gentle. He understood about her difficulty in accepting that Alan had really been killed, during the last days of the war; the lack of a funeral and the necessary grieving that went with it, making the death difficult to accept.

  ‘Johnny!’ She pushed her recent unhappiness aside and because of it, her welcome to her fiancé was more demonstrative than usual. Ignoring the solitary face staring out from the bus window, she hugged him, taking care not to smudge her lipstick against his cheek.

  ‘I recognised your car,’ he said. ‘What are you doing in the church all on your own?’ His young face flushed slightly with the pleasure of her greeting.

  ‘I was on my way back from Swansea and I thought I’d pop in and dream a little about next week.’ She stared into his eyes, lowering her lashes in a way that was both coy and provocative, an attempt to forget her recent doubts. ‘Johnny, I can’t wait for us to be married.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t, did we?’ he chuckled. ‘That old castle has seen some sights in its day!’

  Fay stiffened and pulled away from him. She could not understand his openness in talking about their private moments. She found it hard to discuss them, and preferred it to happen, then be forgotten until the next time they felt passion overwhelming them.

  ‘You’d better go, that customer of yours will be putting in a complaint.’

  ‘Never. It’s my auntie. Old romantic she is; had three husbands she has, and would take a fourth if she was given half a chance!’

  He gave her one brief kiss which she turned her face to receive on he
r cheek, then ran lightly down the path, under the lych-gate and across the road to his cab. He tooted noisily on his horn as the purring became a roar, and the bus disappeared behind the yew trees lining the road.

  Getting into her car, Fay again added a touch of powder to her cheeks and turned on the ignition. She was smiling. Johnny’s happiness was in no doubt. They would be happy, she would make sure of that. Checking her mirror she pulled out into the road, but she did not increase her speed. A hundred and fifty yards from the church was the house in which she lived. It might be an idea to call and see if anything had arrived by second post. She parked outside the large semi and got out.

  Already the house was looking abandoned. The curtains had been taken down from the windows and all the potted plants which had bordered the front path were gone. The marks on the concrete where they had stood added to the air of neglect which the untidy piles of rubbish accentuated. The rubbish consisted mostly of unwanted mats and lino. She was determined to leave the house clean and litter-free for the new tenants, whoever they might be.

  Her rent had been paid for the next two weeks and by that time the place would be devoid of everything that would tell of the years she and her parents had lived there. She had an urge to go in at once and begin scrubbing the wooden floors, to wash away her old life and so impose a stronger feeling of the new.

  There was one letter; it looked official, probably a bill, she thought. She opened it and read a letter from the owner, reminding her that it was her responsibility to leave the place as she would wish to find it. She tore it angrily and threw it onto the cold ashes of last night’s fire.

  She went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and found a note pushed through the window. ‘Parcel in the shed’ it said. The parcel could have waited, but she was expecting supplies of some new ‘Bride’s Mother’ creations. April, May and June were busy times for weddings and she knew they would sell well. She brought the large box into the house.