Valley Affairs Read online

  Valley Affairs

  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

  Copyright

  Valley Affairs

  Grace Thompson

  To all my friends in Swansea

  Map

  Chapter One

  The cottage was silent in the early morning. No light showed and the incipient dawn added to the blackness. A fox sniffed around the edge of the chicken run and drooled as the disturbed hens clucked nervously. He tried the gate of the run, pushing it with a paw experimentally in the hope that it would be open, as he did every morning, but he was unlucky. The catch slipped at the last push but he had given up and failed to notice the gate give slightly.

  He found a few pieces of bread that Nelly had thrown out for the birds and a few discarded apples that had fallen from the old gnarled tree. He ate half-heartedly, the act of chewing gave him the appearance of a smile, as he watched the run. He trotted around to touch the nest boxes with his nose before departing up the cinder path and off through the woods.

  A shrew ran across his path and the fox jumped and landed almost playfully on the shrew with his two front paws, like a kitten with an innocent ball of wool. He chewed the morsel before disappearing into the silent darkness of the trees.

  It might have been the anxious clucking of the chickens which disturbed Nelly, for although it was still dark outside, when she opened her brown eyes and peered at the battered alarm clock on the table beside her bed she did not settle back into sleep. She rose and stretched, sighing like a child at the pleasure of the lazy wakening, and felt for her clothes on the old army greatcoat which covered her bed.

  She dressed, smiling at the sound of the dogs whining below, waiting to greet her. She knew that even this early on a chilly October morning they wouldn’t refuse a walk in the woods. They would have to wait while she attended to her toilet first though. They were never included in her private moments.

  She didn’t go far into the trees. So early and in such an isolated spot it was unlikely someone would see her lifting her skirts. She went back to collect Bobby and Spotty and she watched them playing, wishing she knew what their noses told them about the activities of the night.

  Nelly had put the kettle over the fire, low after the night, but she didn’t go back to wait for it to boil. Sometimes the mornings were irresistible and even the thought of the first cup of tea could not persuade her to hurry home. She went past her gate and down the narrow lane to the main road of the village.

  The houses were swathed in an early morning mist and she watched in wonder as it slowly lifted and revealed the moist hedges and the shining wet road. The cottages looked dazzling white and, as the outlines became clearer, she smiled as lights appeared in several windows.

  Johnny Cartwright was up, and in the next house Phil Davies the postman was already opening his door to get started on his round. He waved and she shouted a greeting, breaking the silence.

  ‘I ’opes you’re comin’ out an’ not creepin’ in!’ she laughed.

  ‘No chance of any secret love affairs in Hen Carw Parc,’ he replied. ‘Not with you and that nosy old bugger up by there.’ He pointed into the mist to where Prue Beynon lived. ‘I swear she never leaves that landing window of hers.’

  Nelly watched him cycle away then she turned to see lights going on above the general stores owned by Amy Prichard. She would be rising now and getting Margaret ready for school and Freddy up to help her in the shop. The street was empty of people and cars passed only occasionally, hissing through the surface moisture, lights making the road gleam like metal.

  The groan of a heavier engine slowly approached and the forestry bus loomed out of the mist. In the steamy windows Nelly saw the distorted shapes of faces. The bus slowed, its horn sounding impatiently, calling for Archie Pearce who lived near Phil Davies and worked at the forestry.

  His door didn’t open and the driver of the bus hooted again. Still the house was dark and the driver jumped down and strode to Archie’s door, anger bristling visibly even at the distance that separated Nelly from him. She chuckled as he banged and rattled the door and window, and threw grit up at the bedroom, shouting as some fell back on his face.

  The door finally opened and Archie stumbled out, clutching at his half-fastened trousers and carrying his coat and food box. The driver, shouting insults at him, climbed back into his cab and started off, determined to make Archie stumble to make up for the irritating delay.

  ‘Every Thursday it’s the same,’ he shouted, more to himself than in the hope of an interested audience. Nelly chuckled. On Wednesdays Archie played darts at The Drovers and the excitement and the few drinks made him sleep through his alarm the next morning. The figure faintly seen in the opaque windows of the lighted bus staggered and laughter filled the air but was quickly lost as the bus noisily increased speed.

  She walked on past the row of small cottages, past the school her grandson attended, and the church, and the house where her daughter Evie lived, and then turned up Sheepy Lane which led back to her cottage. It also led to the council houses and was wide enough for traffic, although it had once been used to bring sheep down from the hills beyond the woods.

  In the field below the trees several rabbits sat or wandered around casually, but as soon as the dogs pushed through the fence they disappeared as if by magic. She wondered if Phil had been out with his nets recently. He hadn’t brought her any for a while. She would have to drop a few broad hints. Meat was a luxury and rabbit made a good casserole.

  When she went back inside the warmth hit her and she loosened her coat and went to the now steaming kettle to make a pot of tea. She breakfasted off some home-baked bread, made in her large oven range, and some cheese made from sour milk and celery seed, then dozed contentedly in her big armchair while the day gradually woke up. The dogs slept across her feet and outside the mist finally gave way to autumn sunshine and the promise of a warm day.

  * * *

  ‘Gran, Gran, the gypsies are back!’ Oliver ran down Nelly’s path, scattering the startled hens and sending discarded feathers into the air. ‘Can we go and see them, Gran, can we? I’ve finished my homework.’

  ‘Give ’em a chance, why don’t yer? Leave it ’til tomorrer then I’ll take a fresh baked loaf and a few carrots I’ve got left from me garden.’

  ‘Talk to them you mean?’ Oliver, a serious-faced eight-year-old, looked horrified.

  Nelly put down the fork with which she had been clearing the weed-filled vegetable patch. ‘Course talk to ’em! Friends of mine they are, ’specially Clara.’

  ‘I don’t think Mother would—’

  ‘Then don’t tell ’er. Not ’til after we’ve seen ’em!’ Nelly said firmly. She scraped the worst of the mud from the fork with her shoe and propping it against the straggly hedge, scraped her shoes clean. She knocked the mud from the fork for a second time and Oliver laughed.

  ‘This could go on for hours, Gran.’

  ‘I gives up in the end. I can’t be bothered with them fancy foot-scrapers meself. I’ll leave the fork there ’til it dries, then a good clout against the shed an’ it’ll be as clean as it ever is. Come on, I’ve got a couple of cakes left in the tin.’

  After checking that the hens were safely inside, she banged the fork enthusiastically against the wooden coop to demonstrate her theory but failed to notic
e that the catch had slipped from horizontal to vertical.

  ‘Go on, you know where I keeps ’em.’ She gave Oliver a push, kicking off her shoes before following him.

  Oliver went to the tin with the picture of the Queen and Prince Philip on it and helped himself to a date slice.

  ‘All right, I suppose we could just slip up there an’ say hello,’ Nelly smiled. ‘Take another piece of cake, why don’t yer, can’t ’ave you collapsin’ with hunger half way up Gypsy Lane, can we?’

  Oliver still looked rather doubtful.

  ‘They don’t eat little boys!’ Nelly snorted in exasperation. ‘There you come, peltin’ down me path full of excitement sayin’ the gypsies are back, and now you don’t want to meet ’em.’

  ‘I thought we’d just have a peep through the hedge,’ her grandson said in a small voice.

  She laughed, showing the gap in her mouth where a blow from a swing, many years previously, had knocked out three teeth, giving her a lop-sided grin.

  ‘All right. We’ll just ’ave a peep, but I’ll ’ave to say ’ello, me bein’ a friend. You can hide an’ only come out if you want to.’

  She called the dogs, who had run to greet Oliver but then settled to lie down near the back door. ‘Better leave Bobby an’ Spotty ’ere. In you go, boys.’ She pulled ineffectively at the door to close it. ‘Damn door,’ she grumbled. ‘I can only shut it from inside where I can get me bum be’ind it.’

  Nelly and Oliver set off, leaving the dogs whining their disappointment and peering through the partly-closed door.

  Turning left at the gate they walked down the lane to the main road. Right then, past the small estate of large houses, where Mrs French and Prue Beynon lived. Nelly ‘did’ for Mrs French twice a week and she looked up as she passed the house, ready to wave if Monica French was looking out of the window. She sat there a lot these days, Nelly thought, dreaming about the son who had survived the war and died a late victim of it, eight years after the Fighting was over. The hedge was high and Nelly stretched her plump body and waved but only caught a glimpse of the sad figure half-shaded by the curtains. The last house was where Prue Beynon lived and Nelly poked out her tongue as they passed.

  The lane into which they then turned was called Gypsy Lane and it led up between high banks and hedges to Leighton’s farm. They saw smoke rising from the fire before they turned the final bend in the lane and Oliver grasped Nelly’s hand tightly.

  The small encampment was in a place where the grass verge widened. There was a gate close to the solitary caravan which led into a field and on hedges either side of it, branches had caught wisps of straw from the waggons as the field had been emptied of its harvest. Birds’ll be glad of them come the spring, Nelly thought as she pulled one off to chew.

  Two horses were tethered further on, held by a metal stake knocked into the ground. The caravan, or vardo, was canvas-topped and rounded, the cart and supporting posts beautifully carved and painted maroon and yellow. The wheels too were cut and patterned and painted in the same colours. The panels on either side of the front opening had a more elaborate scroll design and behind them were shelves and cupboards built to hold the family’s possessions.

  From the rounded canvas roof a tall chimney rose, but the smoke they had seen did not come from there. Some distance from the vardo a fire burned brightly, a black cooking pot hanging over it on a tripod and chains. A thin, dark-haired woman was dropping pieces of meat into the pot, humming quietly to herself as if unaware of the approaching visitors.

  To Oliver she looked oddly dressed, and his heart began to beat faster. Her long black skirt hung half way between her knees and the ground, and a dark floral overall covered most of its length. A cardigan came next, shorter than the overall and adding another layer. Then a bright scarf around her neck and another holding back the long hair. On top of all this was a fringed shawl, draped around her shoulders and tied loosely near her waist. Large gold earrings glinted when the gypsy’s head moved and on her fingers shone several rings.

  Oliver stared in amazement, but hid behind Nelly as the woman raised her eyes and looked at him. When the dark eyes crinkled in a smile he was so relieved he thought his legs would give out. She dropped the ladle into the pot and stood with her arms wide in welcome. She hadn’t spoken and the dogs, who watched them from a corner of the vardo were silent, waiting for the woman to give a command.

  ‘Nelly Luke!’ the woman said at last. She turned her dark eyes on Oliver, who looked away from her. ‘And who is this?’

  ‘Me grandson Oliver. What d’you think of that, eh?’

  Oliver continued to stare unseeing into the stubble of the field beside him. The two long, thin dogs relaxed, reassured by Clara’s acceptance of the strangers.

  ‘Come on, Ollie, come an’ meet Clara.’ She tugged the boy closer.

  ‘How d’you do?’ he whispered.

  The gypsy woman held out her hand and when Oliver slowly raised his, she took it and turned it over to examine the palm. Then she lifted the other hand and studied them both for a while in silence. Oliver’s legs began to shake nervously.

  ‘What d’you see then? Clever boy, ain’t ’e?’ Nelly knew her friend would say nothing to frighten the boy.

  ‘Cushti,’ Clara said, nodding approvingly. ‘Cushti.’

  ‘That means good,’ Nelly whispered, smiling proudly.

  ‘You’ve got a clever boy there, Nelly my friend.’ She smiled into the boy’s apprehensive face. ‘Quiet, kind and gentle and a good scholar.’ She glanced at Nelly then added, ‘Books. Lots of books. A good scholar he’ll be.’ The wise old woman had seen from Nelly’s slight reaction that ‘scholar’ pleased her and had repeated it.

  She let Oliver’s hands drop and gestured with her head towards the vardo. ‘Would you like to see inside? Me and your grandmother, we have some talking to do. A lot of news to exchange. Go on, there’s no one there.’ She smiled at Nelly as Oliver, whose curiosity had driven away his fear, went towards the gaily painted steps.

  Nelly sighed as she settled her stiff hip to sit near the fire. The pot was beginning to boil and she watched as Clara adjusted the chain to raise the pot until it was gently simmering.

  ‘What’s been happening since we last met, my friend? From the smile of contentment on your face it has been nothing but good.’

  ‘Marriages, ghosts from the past and even a murder, an’ worse than that, Clara. My Evie’s come back ’ere to live an’ she’s drivin’ me to drink with ’er fussin’.’

  ‘You don’t take much driving from what I remember,’ Clara smiled. ‘But is Evie worse than a murder?’

  ‘The things I ’ave to do to stop ’er from runnin’ me life you’d never believe.’ She patted the gypsy woman’s shoulder. ‘But tell me how you are first.’

  ‘My boys have all gone now. Married. Gone into houses. There’s but me and Ivor, and the girl. We’re doing nice enough.’

  As they exchanged news Oliver climbed the steps and looked inside the neat vardo. Mirrors gleamed from several places. Shelves and cupboards hung on the walls, all neatly fitted to use every inch of precious space. There was a long seat against one wall, which left only a small area of floor on which there was a thick, colourful rug. The covering on the long seat was an exact match.

  He marvelled at the beautiful painting which decorated everything in the small room. The china, the long line of tins and bottles, and the kitchen utensils that hung on hooks in small gaps between shelves were all covered in scrolls and flowers. The mirrors were patterned with cut-out designs which caught the light and added sparkle to the scene.

  At the opposite end of the vardo a window was open and a curtain swung in the breeze. He looked out and for a brief moment imagined the freedom of a life continually on the move. If he lived with the gypsies no one would force him to learn to read. There were no books to be seen.

  ‘What d’you think of our home then, boy?’ Clara asked him when he stood again at Nelly’s side.

&nb
sp; ‘Where’s the bed?’ he asked.

  ‘Did you see that long seat?’ Clara asked. ‘Well, that opens out and holds the bedding and at the same time ’tis the bed. The girl sleeps across the end below the window.’

  ‘Thank you for letting me see it. It’s a lovely place to live,’ he said in his awkward, formal way. The laughter which had accompanied the women’s conversation had ceased and he felt he had interrupted a discussion which would not be for his ears.

  ‘Who is the girl Clara talked about, Gran?’ He asked as they walked back home.

  ‘Clara’s son had a wife who died when their little girl was born. The son went away and Clara has brought up her grandchild as her own. So it’s like you an’ me, Ollie.’

  ‘Can we go and see them again tomorrow?’

  ‘O’ course. You ain’t scared then?’

  ‘Clara is a bit scary, the way she stared, and looked at my hand pretending to see something. It isn’t true is it? I’m not a scholar.’

  ‘’Ow d’you know what you are? You ain’t nine yet! She saw only good things. So what’s scary in that?’

  ‘Nothing, Gran. It was – cushti,’ he said with a shy smile.

  * * *

  It was Saturday and Nelly had done a few hours’ housework for Mrs French. The rest of the day was to have been spent digging the garden and clearing the last of the cabbage stumps and the bedraggled lettuces which had shot up and gone to seed. Now she had lost enthusiasm for the work and she put the fork in the shed and went inside.

  The fire was low. The red heart hidden under grey ash was almost beyond reviving. She stirred it gently with one of the long pokers and added some fresh wood. When it crackled into life she placed a few lumps of coal on the wood with tongs and the result was thick smoke. She turned towards the open door, swearing under her breath, and as the room cleared she turned the swivel on which the kettle sat and put tea into the teapot.

  She was standing close to the fire, waiting for the water to boil, when she heard the gate click. She stretched and looked expectantly out of the window. The kettle was beginning to show signs of boiling. ‘Nice time fer a visitor,’ she said to the dogs who were staring through the open door, their long tails tapping the linoleum. Nelly’s smile faded and she groaned as she recognised her visitor.