The Changing Valley Read online

  The Changing 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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Copyright

  The Changing Valley

  Grace Thompson

  To my dear friends Pam and Fred who make it all such fun

  Chapter One

  It was a Sunday morning in late May and after three days of rain the hedges and fields sparkled with fresh colours. Nelly, making her way down the lane to the main road, stopped frequently to admire the star-like daisies, golden sun-filled cups of the buttercups and the flat white heads of yarrow. Pale primroses were visible to her sharp eyes, deep in the tangled hedge, and scarlet pimpernel threaded its determined way through the rest, its cheerful flowers open to the brightness of the day after remaining stubbornly closed during the rain and cloud of the past week.

  Along the main road through the village of Hen Carw Parc, a steady stream of people made their way eastwards to the stone church. Their dress was as smart as the flowers as if, like the scarlet pimpernel, they had remained closed up and dowdy during the overcast days and only now had woken up and put on their best and newest display.

  ‘Hats,’ Nelly muttered, watching two elderly women pass across the end of the lane without seeing her. She pulled on the leads of the two large dogs to make them pay attention. ‘’Ats an’ ’igh ’eels is as important of a Sunday as prayer books an’ the Bible, seems to me.’ She stared into the brown eyes of Spotty and Bobby who gazed adoringly up at her, their tails wagging happily, then went on, ‘I wonder if Gawd thinks better of ’em fer puttin’ on ’ats an’ ’igh ’eels? A sort of penance? Damned uncomfortable they looks to me but p’raps it makes ’em sing better. After all, they all sings very ’igh don’t they, as if they’re in pain too, some of ’em!’

  She held the dogs back and waited until the worshippers had ceased to pass the end of the lane before stepping out from the concealment of the hedge on to the main road. She was not a person to worry unduly over the opinion of others but somehow, seeing even Farmer Leighton dressed in his best tweed suit which he wore only for Sundays and market days, she was conscious of her appearance. The short skirt unpressed, the over-large coat flapping about her, the ancient felt hat with a brim large enough, George often remarked, to protect her shoulders from sunburn, and, on her size-five feet, George’s size-nine Wellington boots.

  Her own wellingtons had been left out in the garden and, when found, had been full of water. They were now stuffed with newspaper and drying by the fire. As the lane was too muddy for shoes, George’s boots seemed to Nelly utterly sensible.

  Because the wellingtons were too large by several sizes they pulled on her stockings and on one fat knee and the elastic band intended to keep her stockings up was visible below an expanse of white flesh. Careless now of being seen, as most people were ahead of her making for the church, she hoisted up the stocking with a groan of effort, fixed the elastic high up on her thigh and tucked the leg of her knickers under it to help in the difficult task of keeping herself covered.

  ‘Come on boys.’ She yanked the amiable dogs to their feet and after waiting for Gerry Williams and Pete Evans to roar past on their motor bikes, crossed the road to the general stores and post office. It was closed, of course, but she had arranged with Amy to go and help with some weekend cleaning.

  The shop door was open and as she climbed the step and threw off the first boot she heard a gale of laughter behind her. Amy Prichard, her long glittering earrings dangling and shaking, her blue eyes almost closed with mirth, pointed to Nelly’s foot dangling in the air and about to discard its ungainly Wellington.

  ‘Nelly love, what are you wearing?’

  ‘George’s wellies, what d’you think? Me own is full of rainwater. Yer wouldn’t want me to get pneumonia would yer?’ She threw off the second boot and stumped through the shop to the cupboard where she kept her slippers. Returning with furry slippers on her feet and a sacking apron around her middle she stood, arms akimbo in front of Amy, who was still laughing.

  ‘Where d’you want me to start, Amy? Shelves again?’

  ‘Please, Nelly. These, where I keep the knitting wools need a clean-up.’ She dabbed her eyes to wipe away the tears of laughter and shook her head. Nelly would never change.

  Humming cheerfully, Nelly began to take out the skeins of wool, sorting them carefully into colours and thicknesses, and soon emptied the shelves. The wooden compartments were washed and refilled, drawers which held needles and pins and dozens of small items on which Amy made little profit but which saved the villagers many a tedious trek into the town of Llan Gwyn were tidied up and cleaned.

  ‘Cup of tea, Nelly love?’ Amy asked as she finished cleaning behind the row of biscuit tins in front of the counter.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask!’ Nelly kicked off her slippers and sat on the chair intended for customers to rest on while they gave their orders. Amy returned with the tea and sat down on an empty box. She dropped her shoulders and her pretty face looked sad.

  ‘I’m getting fed up with all this, Nelly,’ she sighed. ‘My life seems so full of work there’s never a moment to relax.’ As if on cue, a baby began to stir and a thin wail filled the shop. ‘See what I mean? I swear baby Sian knows the moment I sit down!’

  Nelly put down her cup and saucer and went to where the carry cot was resting on two chairs in the small kitchen behind the shop. She picked up the little girl and carried her through the shop to Amy. ‘Bit of wind I expect, Amy. She’s good really, ain’t she? You’d ’ardly know she’s there.’

  ‘But what happens when she starts to crawl and walk and need more attention than her feeds and an occasional cuddle? What will I do with her then?’

  ‘Won’t Prue be well enough to take ’er back by then?’ Nelly asked, watching Amy patting the baby’s back and soothing her back to sleep. Baby Sian was the daughter of Amy’s sister, Prue Beynon, and since the birth, the baby had lived with Amy, as Prue had been too ill to care for her.

  Amy shook her blonde head.

  ‘She doesn’t seem to improve at all, in fact she seems to be institutionalised already. She sits there staring into space for most of the time when I visit her, as if she’s waiting for me to go so she can return to her room and wait for the next meal.’

  ‘Don’t she take no notice of ’er little girl?’

  ‘Hardly any. I suppose, when you think of how she lost her husband, after she learnt that he was being unfaithful – and with me, her sister – then found she was pregnant so late in life, it’s small wonder she couldn’t cope with it all.’

  ‘Amy, it ain’t my business I know that, but wouldn’t it be better if you come back to live ’ere above the shop? That ’ouse ’Arry Beynon left yer is too far away, right at the end of the village and, nice as it is, it’s a lot of extra work for yer, goin’ backwards and forwards.’

  ‘I was so thrilled to be left that house, Nelly. Not for the value as much as the gesture.
Harry showing he cared for me in spite of refusing to leave Prue and marry me. I thought it would be a proper home for Freddie and Margaret, a place where they could bring their friends, room to breathe after years of being stuck in those cramped rooms above the shop. But I suppose it’s all gone wrong. Freddie’s joined the army and, as for Margaret, I don’t have time to have her friends round nearly as much as I dreamed. I don’t have time for anything! Except the things that keep us ticking over.’

  ‘Then tell them Powells upstairs to hoppit! They can go back to livin’ with ’er mother, can’t they, up on the council ’ouses?’

  ‘I couldn’t do that. They’ve only just settled in and Mavis helps me in the shop, and—’

  ‘Sod to all that. You got to look after yerself, Amy. Tell ’em to go. Be sorry an’ polite but tell ’em you need the flat, why don’t yer?’

  ‘In some ways it would be easier. But there’s Margaret, she loves her new bedroom.’

  ‘Tell ’er it’s only fer a while. Kids can put up with anything if it’s only fer a while.’

  Both women stood up and continued with their work. They were silent as they washed and scrubbed and dusted and stacked, Nelly thinking of how, if Amy left the house and returned to the flat she would lose some hours of work, Amy wondering if she should do as Nelly suggested and return to the cramped flat and leave the house she and Harry had dreamed of making their home.

  ‘Perhaps the Powells would rent the house and let me come back here,’ Amy said half an hour later.

  ‘You’ll miss the garden.’

  ‘Yes, but honestly, Nelly, when do I have time to enjoy it?’

  ‘An’ what will yer boyfriends do to impress you if they can’t see to yer lawn and weed yer flower beds? Blimey, talk about rivalry! Gawd ’elp us, as soon as a poor little daisy dares to open its eye, Billie Brown or Victor Honeyman swoops down and slaughters it before it can admire the view! Them two’ll be desperate, lookin’ fer jobs to do to impress you with their devotion!’

  ‘Everyone was marvellous when I moved, Nelly, including you. People never stopped turning up with gifts and offers of help. Honestly, I was overwhelmed.’

  ‘People like you, Amy.’

  ‘Tolerate me, you mean. Two children and no husband, affairs with two married men. That doesn’t do much to endear me to the locals!’

  ‘People like you and don’t think no different.’ Nelly went to the door which stood half open and looked down the quiet street. Being Sunday, there was little traffic apart from the few cars taking people home from church and chapel. Small groups of pedestrians were scattered along the pavements and from one group a figure separated and waved enthusiastically.

  ‘Oh gawd, it’s Milly Toogood,’ Nelly groaned. ‘What’s she run out of this time?’

  ‘I swear that if I open that door at midnight she’ll come running in asking for something or the other. That’s why I’m tolerated, Nelly, because I’m useful.’ She turned and gave a dazzling smile to Milly, who was panting with the effort of getting to the shop before the door closed, ‘Morning Milly, we’re closed,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Out of sugar, I am. Spilt the lot, I did.’

  ‘There’s a shame.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Amy, just a little half pound.’ Then, as she saw Amy weakening, she added, ‘— and you couldn’t let me have a bit of bacon off next week’s rations could you?’

  ‘No I couldn’t!’

  ‘All right then, just the sugar.’ Milly made a face to Nelly but received no sympathetic response.

  Amy put some sugar in a bag which she disguised with a wrapping of newspaper before handing it to Milly Toogood. ‘I don’t want half the village knowing I’m a soft touch on a Sunday morning!’

  ‘Thanks, Amy, you’re a good sort. Pay tomorrow, all right?’ Milly’s eyes swept around the shop, noting the wet floor and some of the shelves empty of their contents. ‘Having a bit of a clean-up, are you? And on a Sunday too.’ She tutted disapproval.

  ‘Cheerio Milly.’ Amy closed the door with some haste behind her customer and turned to Nelly. ‘Nosy old devil!’

  ‘You’d better open that door again. Here’s a visitor you will want to see,’ Nelly smiled.

  Coming across the road, waving goodbye to Mrs French the music teacher, was nine-year-old Margaret. Her long hair was a rich red, her eyes a warm brown. She wore a dark-green coat with a velvet collar and pocket flaps and in her hands she carried a few sheets of music as well as a Bible and a hymn book.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Amy said, opening her arms to hug her daughter.

  ‘Mam, I’ve got news for you.’ Margaret smiled to include Nelly. ‘There’s going to be a concert and lots of other things as well, to raise money to build a new church hall.’

  ‘And you’re in the concert!’ Amy guessed.

  ‘Playing piano, singing in the choir, and I want to enter the painting competition and write a poem!’ Margaret danced on her toes in excitement.

  ‘What about us?’ Nelly asked. ‘Ain’t there somethin’ we can do? I can sing yer know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Margaret said hesitantly, ‘I’ve heard you. Um – there’ll be lots of other things too.’ Her brown eyes darted from Nelly to her mother, anxious not to offend.

  ‘The Reverend Barclay Sevan says he wants to involve everyone in the village.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Nelly chuckled, ‘I don’t want to ruin the ’ole thing by singin’. I don’t sing till I’m drunk an’ then there’s no tellin’ what songs I’ll choose! What about my grandson? Ollie’s a bit shy but ’e can do somethin’ quiet, like the paintin’.’

  ‘Come on, Margaret love or we’ll never get any dinner tonight.’ Amy suddenly looked tight-faced and sad.

  ‘What’s up? Ain’t yer pleased that your Margaret is singin’ and that fer the church?’ Nelly whispered.

  ‘It’s just reminded me,’ Amy whispered back as they put on their coats, ‘if we do move back to the flat, where will we put Margaret’s piano?’

  ‘Small room be’ind the shop o’ course,’ Nelly hissed back. ‘You won’t want this kitchen if you’ve got the one upstairs, will yer?’

  ‘Oh dear, I never seem to settle into a trouble-free existence, do I?’

  ‘Aw, poor you! Get the violins out, shall I?’ Nelly teased and was relieved to see Amy’s pretty face relax into a smile.

  Amy gave Nelly an affectionate push. ‘Go on, you, I want Margaret to see you crossing the road in those daft wellingtons!’

  ‘You could always marry that Billie Brown,’ was Nelly’s parting shot. ‘Life of luxury you’d ’ave then, bein’ married to a wealthy farmer.’ She was surprised at the thoughtful expression on Amy’s face as she left her.

  As Nelly crossed the road, lumbering slowly and with exaggerated difficulty to make Margaret laugh, the two motorbikes returned.

  ‘Hi-ya Nelly? Want a lift?’ Pete Evans shouted. The dogs barked at the deafening noise and Nelly was almost pulled out of George’s wellingtons before she reached the safety of the lane.

  * * *

  There were sounds of activity in the garden of her cottage as she and the dogs approached it. The front of the house looked away from the village towards the wooded hills, and the back garden, rarely thought of, was overgrown and neglected. It was from here that the sounds came. She peered through the hedge and could see branches swaying as the sound of something being dragged along the ground came closer. Nelly waited curiously to see the cause of the disturbance.

  ‘That you George?’ she called, then smiled as a tall, white-haired and bearded man appeared, his blue eyes crinkled with pleasure.

  ‘Yes, Nelly, I’m making a start on the worst of the garden. Look at it. It’s like cutting a way through an Amazonian jungle. Come round and give me a hand. Dinner won’t be ready for an hour.’

  ‘’Ang on, I’ll push through.’

  ‘No! Don’t spoil the—’ George fell silent as Nelly turned herself backwards and, leaning on the neglected privet, forc
ed a way through with her ample hips. ‘—spoil the hedge,’ George finished sadly.

  The back of the cottage was wrapped in a shawl of leaves. A creeper had spread across the walls and the windows, with only a small opening cut at an upstairs window to let light into George’s bedroom. It had reached the roof, where it swayed occasionally in the breeze like fronds of seaweed in a gentle tide. It had also travelled across the ground and curled itself lovingly among the trees and bushes. It was on this convoluted confusion that George was working.

  ‘Blimey, George, that ain’t ’alf grown!’

  ‘Think of all the candles we’ll save when we let the daylight in,’ George laughed.

  They worked together for an hour, pulling the creeper free from the stones of the building, and piling the resulting leaves and stems into an ever-growing bonfire. When the area immediately near the house walls had been cleared, Nelly stood back and admired the result.

  ‘Smashin’ that is, George, you deserve a cup of tea.’ Leaving George still cutting through some thick stems, she walked inside through the front door. She made tea from the sooty kettle simmering on the black-leaded oven range, refilled the kettle from the tap in the lane before carrying the tray around to where George was working. A pile of cut branches impeded her path so she went back into the house and into the small room overlooking the back garden.

  ‘George,’ she called, looking through the newly revealed window. When there was no reply she placed the tray on a cobwebby chest of drawers that had not been used for years, and stretched out through the window to look for him. Hearing the sound of chopping some distance from the house, she stretched further and further out and called again. Suddenly her call ended in a terrified shout as she felt the window frame, weakened by neglect, groan and give way. The corners distorted, trapping her in a tenacious grip.

  With an anxiety that could be clearly discerned in her complaining voice, she struggled forward to escape the painful hug of the splintered wood and distorted nails. Forcing herself forwards, she fell through the window on to the ground as George finally appeared. Momentarily his concern was banished by laughter at the sight of Nelly’s plump hips encased by the broken window, the hinged frame tilting around her like battered wings.