Valley Affairs Read online

  ‘Evie.’

  It was difficult to believe the two women were mother and daughter. Nelly was fat and dressed in ill-fitting clothes, with shoes tilted over and worn, dark hair untidily drawn back from a face in which crooked teeth now showed in an uneasy smile of welcome.

  Evie was smartly dressed in a navy suit and a cream blouse. Her neat court shoes exactly matched the small handbag on her arm, and she carried crocheted gloves in the same shade of cream as her blouse. She walked cautiously down the path, concentrating on avoiding the worst of the hen droppings and mud. She reached the door before looking up, her tawny-brown eyes full of disapproval, the bubble-cut hair not moving a fraction as she shook her head.

  ‘Mother, you look a mess! But that’s not what I have come to say,’ she hurriedly went on, stopping Nelly who was open-mouthed and ready to protest.

  ‘I know what you’re goin’ to say and gypsies won’t do ’im no ’arm!’ Nelly managed to blurt out while Evie took a breath. ‘Clara an’ ’er family, they’re friends of mine.’

  ‘That’s no guarantee of their suitability! Rather the reverse! Please, Mother, don’t take him up there again. There’s no knowing what he’ll pick up.’

  ‘Pick up? What the ’ell d’you think ’e’ll pick up? Fleas? Poison? Spotless that vardo is, and if you don’t believe me, ask young Oliver.’

  ‘Vardo,’ Evie said disparagingly. ‘It’s nothing more than a tent!’

  ‘You know that, do yer? When did you see inside it like Ollie did? Spotless it is, an’ a lot more than a tent.’ In her anger, Nelly had bent almost into a boxer’s stance, her head low and an aggressive jaw pushed forward.

  Evie repeated her complaints, her voice shrill and loud as Nelly argued back. Suddenly Nelly stopped and into the silence, which made Evie feel embarrassed at her shrieking, asked quietly, ‘Come in fer a cuppa, why don’t yer?’

  ‘No thank you, Mother,’ Evie said in a more carefully modulated tone, ‘I just want your promise.’

  ‘Encouraging that boy to be dishonest, you are, with your don’t do this an’ don’t do that.’

  ‘You might have got the better of me in my plan to get you out of this – hovel – but you won’t lead my son away from the decent upbringing Timothy and I are giving him. You or that tramp you married.’

  ‘George, ’is name is George.’ Nelly smiled as she remembered telling Clara of how, when Evie and Timothy threatened to make her leave her home, she and George had married in secret so she could stay. ‘Good day that was, Evie. I ’ad a letter from ’im once, you know.’

  ‘He can write, can he?’

  ‘Want to see it?’

  ‘I can’t spare the time. I just want you to promise not to introduce my son to any more undesirables.’

  ‘No “undesirables”,’ Nelly repeated the word, her head on one side, like a bird listening for worms. ‘Stay for a cuppa, the kettle’s boilin’ its ’ead off.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Evie went back up the path without saying goodbye.

  ‘Bleedin’ kids.’ Nelly muttered. She went in and made her tea and, lifting a cushion, found a bottle from which she poured a generous helping into her cup. ‘Enough to drive anyone to drink, my Evie.’

  * * *

  Nelly’s cottage was at the edge of the woods and some distance from the road. There were no lights to shine on her home at night and without a moon to break the darkness, her garden was without form. When she woke in the middle of the night with the hens squawking and flying against the sides of the coop, she crawled out of bed and peered uselessly out of the window. The dogs were barking furiously but there was no way of finding out what was wrong without getting up and going downstairs. She pressed her face against the window for one more try.

  ‘Like looking into a cupboard,’ she grumbled, feeling for the candle and the matches. ‘What’s upset them now?’

  She knew the fox often rattled the door and sent the chickens frantic, but the noise was different from before. She pulled on the army greatcoat for extra warmth and went sleepily down the curved staircase.

  As always her first thought was the fire. It was still red and she threw a few small pieces of wood onto it from the wicker basket nearby. In a corner of the windowsill was the torch. The dogs fussed around her as she tried it and looked hopefully towards the door. The light flickered so palely that she discarded it and stood the candle in the window.

  Dragging the door open she let the eager dogs out and, standing on the doorstep, she listened intently, screwing up her eyes in the hope of seeing something to explain the fuss. The dogs growled and gradually Nelly made out their shapes as they sniffed around the garden and the coop and hen run. When she heard them eating something she groaned. Taking the almost useless torch she investigated and found the carcass of a chicken newly killed.

  The door to the coop was hanging open and she decided not to look inside. They would all be dead, she was certain of that. With unaccustomed anger she called the dogs from their feast and dragged them inside.

  * * *

  Phil Davies the postman left his house, where he had stopped off to rouse the fire and toast himself a slice of bread. He placed the bag on his bicycle and pushed his way through the overgrown hedge to the gate. A second breakfast was essential these chilly dark mornings, and with a bit of luck he might have a third when he got to his mother’s house.

  He lived on the main road, in a small row of cottages just down the street from Amy’s stores. There were lights on in her flat above the shop and he smiled as he thought of her getting herself dolled up to face the day. Loved fancy jewellery and frivolous clothes, did Amy.

  A car whined up the hill and Phil followed, pushing his bicycle when it became too steep to ride. On his left were fields belonging to Leighton’s farm and, up beyond, woodland and the ruined castle. On his right were the council houses and more steep hills. He turned into Heol Caradoc and into St Teilo’s Road.

  Leaving his bicycle on the corner he wound his way around the short roads all named after Welsh saints. St Cenyth’s, St Non’s and finally into St David’s Close. Fay’s car was standing against the kerb, right at the end of the Close. So she hadn’t gone to work early. What was she doing slumming it in the council houses?

  He walked back down Heol Caradoc to collect his bicycle and then through Hywel Rise and St Illtyd’s to St Hilda’s and St David’s Close again. He hurried, and sweat was sliding down his forehead as he peered once again down to where Fay’s car was parked. She was just coming out of the house at the end of the Close, facing him. He busied himself sorting letters that didn’t need sorting and waved as she drove past.

  Climbing on to his bicycle again he rode back down St David’s to look at the house she had been visiting. It was empty. He frowned, surely Fay and Johnny Cartwright weren’t considering moving into a council house? Not Fay’s style at all, that. He rode off down the hill still puzzling it out. He liked a mystery. It helped pass the time and made his job more enjoyable, fitting everyone into their places in his world.

  He free-wheeled lazily down towards the village but when he had almost reached the end of Sheepy Lane, he turned into a narrow, unmade track which led to the small cottage where his mother lived. It was muddy after a week of rain and he left his bicycle at the end. He could see the backs of the houses where Evie and Timothy lived, and as far as the church and the school, but the row where he lived was hidden by trees.

  Ethel Davies’ place was small and lacking in luxuries but it was as neat and orderly as Ethel could make it. The outer walls were whitewashed annually and shone now in the October sunshine as it glinted on the windows and patterned the spotlessly clean tiled floor. Phil called and went inside. The iron oven range was black-leaded, the fire a welcoming red glow, and the table was set for a meal.

  Ethel sat on a rocking chair, carefully crocheting a baby’s shawl. She smiled a welcome and pointed to the teapot warming on the brass fender. She didn’t rise as he came in, her knees were painful and
she had difficulty getting around. She watched him with her dark, deep-set eyes, knowing he had something to tell her, her full mouth widening into a smile. Her hair was grey and held back in an untidy bun from which strands continually strayed, but her face was still youthful, belying the pain she often suffered.

  ‘Hello, boy, there’s early you are today. I thought I’d wait and have breakfast with you today and here you are before yourself!’ She smiled at him, and added, ‘What’s happened to make you excited then?’

  ‘Tell you in a minute, got to wet my whistle with a cup of tea first.’ He sipped then asked, ‘Who’s the shawl for?’

  Ethel Davies chuckled. ‘Secret this one. For a while anyway, even from you, nosy boy that you are.’

  Phil watched as she patted the white wool, looking anxiously for signs of knotting or swellings on her hands that he dreaded to see.

  He added hot water to the teapot and opening the heavy oven door, took out two plates of eggs and bacon which he placed on the table.

  ‘Mam, where do you get bacon?’

  ‘Don’t ask!’ she grinned and swivelled her chair around to eat. ‘No post for me this morning?’

  ‘Damn, aye, I nearly forgot. It’s from our Maurice again. He must be excited about coming home, he’s written more in these last weeks than in all the five years he’s been in the army!’

  They ate and talked for a while then Phil finished the last of his fried bread, wiped his mouth and said.

  ‘Funny thing, I saw Fay this morning looking at an empty house. What d’you think of that? Not the sort to live in St David’s close that one, fancies herself. Definitely the crachach, our Fay – a bit above the rest of us.’

  ‘Say nothing, Phil. Best to leave them to sort out their own problems. Gossip only makes things worse.’

  ‘Mam!’ Phil said with a frown which rapidly turned to a grin. ‘As if I’d gossip!’

  ‘Got troubles those two, what with Fay’s ex-fiancé turning up the way he did. Let them be, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘Boy? It’s forty-two I am.’

  He leaned forward and whispered, ‘All right then, tell me who you’re knitting that baby shawl for and I promise not to mention the council house.’

  ‘Not yet. I don’t think the mother is sure about it herself.’

  She nodded towards the larder. ‘Go and look in there, will you? I was given a couple of rabbits yesterday. Skin them and there’s one for you and Catrin.’

  Phil collected them and, pushing back the tablecloth, set to work on the well-scrubbed board.

  Although rationing was still in force, Ethel Davies seemed unaffected by the restrictions. Hanging from the ceiling were two pieces of ham, cured in a farmhouse kitchen, and beside them a flank of fat bacon which she kept to fry for Constable Harris when he called. He loved a bit of fat bacon with some of Ethel’s home-made pickles.

  A slab of cake was under a glass dome, and a plate of tart sat cooling. Ethel had a constant stream of visitors and they kept her well-supplied, so she was used as a sort of cafe by many of the passers-by. But beside the gifts of illegal food she received, she was an expert at making do; her sponges made without fat and pies which contained not meat but remnants of cheese and onion or leeks, were a favourite with her friends.

  Skilfully skinning the rabbits and jointing them ready for the pot, Phil wrapped one and set off to complete his round. ‘I’m off to see Nelly now, Mam, any messages?’

  ‘Tell her I’d like some more eggs when she’s got some to spare.’

  ‘Right then, I’m off. I’ll read Maurice’s letter tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll give us the time that he’ll be home. Funny to have my baby brother back.’ He kissed her and went on his way.

  * * *

  Nelly still hadn’t looked into the chicken coop when Phil called several hours after she had found the dead chicken. She hadn’t gone back to bed but had sat dozing in her favourite armchair. Phil was surprised to see her still in her nightdress.

  ‘Nelly, you not well?’

  ‘I’m well enough,’ she said in her coarse cockney voice, ‘but I can’t say the same fer me chickens.’

  Phil looked up the garden and for the first time noticed the dead birds. ‘Want me to get rid of them for you?’

  Nelly stood up and looked sadly at the bundles of untidy feathers. She gave a big sigh and said, ‘Thanks, Phil. Hatched ’em from eggs, I did, some of ’em anyway. Me an’ young Ollie got the rest from Leighton’s farm and stuck them in with the ’en after sitting ’er on potatoes for a while. Fascinated ’e was, young Oliver. Used to bring all ’is friends to see the ’en cluckin’ and chortlin’ away, teachin’ her babies what to eat and what to leave.’

  ‘I’ll come back later with Johnny and we’ll get the coop fox-proof. Then you can get yourself some pullets ready for the spring.’

  Nelly watched as Phil placed the bodies into a sack. ‘Can’t blame ’im. The fox I mean. It’s nature.’

  ‘What, to go on killing when he doesn’t need them for food? Evil they are.’

  ‘According to Clara, she’s me gypsy friend, they expect their prey to run away so they only usually get one. But ’ens, bein’ locked up, they only fly round and round and the fox gets excited and goes on killin’. Never kills more rabbits or birds more than ’e needs. He don’t expect them to hang around and give ’im the chance, see.’ She picked up a tail feather and tucked it into the lapel of the army greatcoat. ‘’Ating the fox won’t bring me chickens back.’

  To take her mind off the disaster, Phil told her about Maurice coming home.

  ‘Been in the army five years. It’ll take a while for him to settle back in Hen Carw Parc, won’t it.’

  ‘’E won’t be the same boy what went, that’s for sure.’ Phil rubbed the side of his nose. A gesture he made when he was about to discuss a bit of gossip. ‘Mam’s makin’ a baby shawl. Know who it’s for? She won’t tell.’

  They discussed the possibilities for a while, Phil drank two more cups of tea and ate a piece of cake, then the sad cargo was fixed to the back of his bicycle and he began to walk away.

  ‘Get some more, Nelly. Johnny and I will make that hen-run safe this weekend. And we’ll expect some more cake!’ Nelly heard him whistling as he rode down the lane to the main road.

  Nelly sat for a while thinking about her finances. She wasn’t sure she could afford to replace the chickens, yet the place wouldn’t be the same without them. She wrote out lines of figures with an old pencil stub and tried to plan a way of buying some replacements. Perhaps Amy would know of someone needing a few hours’ cleaning. The other worry, that of not knowing who now owned her cottage, she pushed aside. The loss of the chickens was enough for one day.

  It was not one of her days for cleaning other people’s houses and she didn’t feel like cleaning her own, so she put the dogs on their ropes and walked down to the village street to call on Amy at the shop-cum-post office.

  ‘Got me Woman’s Own yet, Amy?’ she asked, pushing her way through the line of customers waiting at the counter. ‘There’s a story about Princess Margaret in it this week. Lookin’ forward to that I am, cheer me up a bit.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Nelly?’ Amy Prichard asked, handing the postage stamps to Milly Toogood. ‘Not like you to be in need of cheering.’

  ‘Me chickens is all dead. Killed by a fox. It’s upset me proper bad.’

  ‘Go through and put the kettle on,’ Amy said. ‘When things have quietened down we’ll have a cuppa and you can tell me what happened.’

  But Nelly stayed in the shop, sitting glum-faced on a sack of dog-biscuits and accepting all the sympathy going. It was only when she had thoroughly milked the situation that she sighed and went through to the small kitchenette.

  She put the kettle to boil and busied herself setting a tray, helping herself to biscuits and giving one each to the dogs. She opened the back door and pushed them outside.

  ‘Go on, boys, go an’ sit in the sun while I have a chat with Amy. If
she catches you peein’ I won’t be able to save you from a clipped ear ’ole.’

  Amy finished the rush of early-morning customers and came through to sit with Nelly. She sparkled with life. Her blonde hair fluffed out like a halo, makeup heavy by some standards but right for her, bringing out the blueness of her beautiful eyes and emphasising the perfect shape of her face. The earrings she always wore glittered in the artificial light in the dark corner of the store room.

  ‘Now then, Nelly, what’s this about your chickens? Not all dead, are they?’

  ‘Yeh, every one. Phil says I should get some more, but I don’t think I can afford ’em. Not with you movin’ out of yer flat and me losin’ the mornin’s work an’ all.’

  ‘But I’ll still want you to clean for me. The house I’m moving to isn’t that far and as everything is newly done the work won’t be hard. You can get there on the bus, can’t you? And as for the flat, well, the people who are moving in might want you to do the same for them as you did for me. And there’s still the shop. You and I will still have to give it a good do once a week. You’ll be better off, the house is an extra. If you can manage it all,’ she added doubtfully.

  ‘You mean you still want me to do for yer? Smashin’ that is. Gawd bless yer, Amy, you’re a real friend.’

  Inside, Nelly gave a sigh of relief. She had been afraid that Amy’s move to the house left to her by her brother-in-law, Harry, meant a drop in her already low income.

  ‘Would an advance help?’ Amy asked. ‘You’ll want to get the chickens as soon as possible, knowing you. You’ll be lost not having them squawking about the place.’ She went to find her purse which she always jammed behind the water pipe. ‘How much will you need?’