Leaves were falling and opening out the woodland, allowing the autumn sun to penetrate to the floor and encourage a late showing of grass in patches of brilliant green. The colour above changed with every day, and Nelly revelled in the beauty of the new season.
She and Oliver wandered through the trees, gathering logs for her winter store, and picked the blackberries that covered the branches of the brambles that abounded in places where few people walked. The garden looked sad, with most of the vegetables gone and the winter digging not yet done. The chickens were searching and scratching for what they could find.
In the fields behind Amy’s shop they walked with carrier bags in their hands and filled them with the heads of wheat left by the harvesters. This would be a treat for the chickens when their scratching produced nothing more than the occasional worm.
Oliver often called to see Nelly before school began. Evie’s household was early rising and he usually had time to spare once breakfast and dressing for school had been completed. If Evie noticed him with nothing to do, she would push a book into his hands and insist he read to her while she washed the dishes and made the beds. This morning he escaped.
The sun was already showing the promise of a pleasant day when he walked past the propped-up gate and walked down the ash path. He was surprised to see the chickens still locked up, and wondered if he should open their door and allow them to scratch in the garden as usual.
The door was tightly shut too. He had never seen it other than wide open. Even if it was raining the door was not closed. Alarm filled him. Something must be wrong. He called, and knocked on the wooden door, but the only response was the wildly excited barking of the dogs. That should wake her if she’s overslept, he thought, but although he waited until he had barely enough time to get to school, she did not appear.
He wondered if she had overslept because of a visit to town on the previous evening. Better not say anything to Dad, he decided, and ran off to school.
At playtime he was unable to join in the games. The offer of some cards to flick against the wall would normally have given him a lot of pleasure, but today, he shook his head and stared at the gate, wishing he were free to go and see if Nelly was all right.
‘Is something the matter, Oliver?’ his father asked.
‘Nothing – at least…’
‘Yes?’ Timothy coaxed.
‘It’s Gran. She wasn’t there when I called before school.’
‘Out with the dogs?’ Timothy suggested.
‘The dogs were inside barking to be let out. The chickens were still locked up.’
‘She must have overslept.’ Timothy frowned when he thought what that might mean. ‘We’ll call at lunchtime, shall we? Just you and me?’
‘Lunchtime’s a long way off.’
‘Forget about it for now, Oliver. She’s all right I’m sure.’
The bell rang out to call the children into lines to return to their classrooms.
‘But if she’s hurt…’ Oliver said, but his father had already turned away, back into the building to watch as the lines of his pupils walked in an orderly fashion back to their lessons.
Oliver moved to the end of his line and when the teacher had disappeared leaving the last few to come in unchaperoned, he ran across the wide playground, through the gate, along the road and up the lane to Nelly’s cottage. This time he pushed and pushed at the door and finally opened it wide enough to slide in and let the frantic dogs out.
‘Gran? Gran. Are you there?’
The room was dark after the sunlight and the curtains were drawn and there was no flicker from the fire. There was no sound except the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Oliver was frightened and wanted to run. ‘Gran?’ he called again, but this time his voice was a whisper.
He pushed the door wider and climbed onto Nelly’s big armchair to pull back the curtains. Then he saw her. She was lying at the foot of the curved staircase, and as he watched, she moved and turned her head towards him. He was still standing on the armchair and for a moment he did not move.
‘What you gawpin’ at?’ Nelly said. ‘Ain’t yer never seen a Gran flopped on the floor before? Make me a cuppa tea why don’t yer? But first, I think we’d better try an’ get me up.’
‘What happened?’
‘Fell on these bleedin’ stairs, that’s what!’
‘Shall I fetch Mother?’
‘Not bloody likely! ’Ave me put away she would, given a chance like this. No, pass me a nice fat cushion.’ She pushed it against the wall between her leg and the first stair and sighed contentedly. ‘There, that’s better. Soon be able to get up. Let me chickens out, will yer?’
Slowly she began to rise, first onto the lowest stair, then onto a chair brought by an anxious Oliver.
‘There, see? I’ll soon be walkin’ about as if nothin’s ’appened. Got a bit cold down there, though. See if the fire’ll revive with a bit of coaxin’ with some sticks, will yer?’
Oliver soon had the fire burning brightly and a kettle singing with the promise of a pot of tea. Nelly found she could move about by resting her painful leg on a chair, using it as a sort of crutch. She made tea and they were sipping it, chatting happily when Nelly heard the dogs growl. Oliver looked out of the small, deep-set window and said, ‘Oh heck, it’s Dad.’
It was only then Nelly realised he should have been at school. ‘You bin mitchin’ then, young Ollie?’ When he nodded, she asked, ‘On account of me?’ He nodded again as Timothy entered, followed by the fussing dogs.
‘Oliver!’
‘What a marvellous boy ’e is!’ Nelly said quickly. ‘Knew I was in trouble and even broke school rules to come an’ find out what was wrong. There’s bravery for yer. You must be ever so proud of ’im, Timmy.’
The words about to fall from Timothy’s lips fumbled and instead, he asked, ‘Are you all right, mother-in-law?’
‘Yes, thanks to your carin’ son I am. Fell I did and no, I wasn’t drunk! Fell on them stairs when me leg sor’ of gave out.’
‘Shall I send for the doctor?’
‘Gawd ’elp us, what for? Put me in bed ’e would. People dies in bed! I’ll get something for the bruises, that’s all I need; don’t want to worry no doctor.’ She laughed away the idea.
‘Are you sure?’
‘’Ere it’s about dinner time, ain’t it? Let Ollie – I mean Oliver, stay an’ ’ave a bite with me. Right as rain I’ll be then. Honest.’ She smiled her crooked smile and nodded to encourage him to agree.
‘Be sure you aren’t late, Oliver,’ Timothy warned, ‘and we’ll say no more about this.’ He picked up the battered clock from the mantelpiece and carefully put it to the correct time.
Nelly looked at the small boy, who always seemed smaller in the presence of his father. If only Timothy could bend a little and be a dad sometimes, she thought sadly, instead of always being a headmaster.
‘Ollie,’ she whispered urgently when Timothy had gone. ‘Will you do something for me? Secret? I want to send a message to George; you know, the tramp.’
‘Why? How?’
‘I ’ates admittin’ it, but I’m goin’ to need a bit of ’elp fer a while. I want you to write a short message for me an’ send it to the Daily Mirror. George ’as promised to look in there every day, and ’e’ll come as soon as ’e can when ’e reads it.’ Oliver looked upset. ‘I can’t, Gran. You know I can’t,’ he added accusingly.
‘This ain’t an occasion fer words like can’t. Look at me ’ands. All swollen where I was lyin’ on ’em. Ollie, I’m dependin’ on yer.’ Nelly pretended not to see the frantic shaking of his head. ‘There’s a pen and a bottle of ink in the table drawer. Come on, Ollie, we mustn’t miss the midday post.’
‘I can’t!’
‘But you’ll try, won’t yer. Good boy you are Ollie, no-one never ’ad a better grandson.’
After a few false starts, the letter was written and the postal order which Nelly had bought in readiness was filled in. Proudly, Oliver walked down the lane and posted it in the box outside Amy’s shop. Then he went back to school to tell his story to his curious friends.
The tramp arrived a few days later, and Nelly pointed to the saucepan on the fire. ‘Just in time you are, George. There’s a pot of soup made with an ’ambone Amy brought for me.’ She smiled at him, her dark brown eyes glowing with pleasure. ‘Nice to see yer, George. I’m glad you could come. So quick an’ all. Young Oliver’s been lookin’ after me, but I’m glad you’ve come.’
Nelly was sitting in her armchair, covered with a warm, Welsh plaid blanket sent to her by Mrs French. She had a pile of books and magazines beside her and her records were within easy reach. She smiled and showed her crooked teeth and the expression on her sun-weathered face was almost wicked, her eyes crinkled with a suggestion that whatever life threw at her, she would always see the joke. The tramp laughed with delight at seeing her again. Oliver came after school and was delighted to see George. He jumped up and down, asked dozens of questions about what George had been doing since he last called. Nelly was reminded again of how different the boy was when he was not in his parents’ company. With the finest of intentions, he was being smothered.
‘So it was you who wrote the letter to the Mirror?’ George said. ‘Well done.’
‘I had to. Gran’s hand was swollen and stiff.’
‘I got it stuck under meself when I fell an’ it got a bit squashed.’
‘I have a present for you, Oliver, for being so kind to your Gran.’ George took a package from his bag and handed it to Oliver, who opened it with haste.
‘Gosh, thanks. A proper fountain pen and a propelling pencil. Thanks! None of the boys in school have these!’ He looked anxiously at Nelly. ‘Gran, can I talk about George being here? I mean, to Mother and Dad.’
‘Course, Ollie. You’ll want to tell them where you got the pen an’ pencil set. It’s no secret, but don’t say nothin’ about ’is stayin’ ’ere, not for a week. All right?’
‘What’s happening next week then?’
‘Well, your Mum wants me to go an’ live with you all.’
Oliver looked thoughtful. ‘I’d love you to live with us, so I can talk to you whenever I want to. But I wouldn’t like not being able to come here. Couldn’t George live here? Then we could both come and see him? Gran! Why not?’
George and Nelly laughed.
‘’Ow’s that fer an idea, eh, George?’ Nelly said and for once they did not include Oliver in the joke.
The shop door opened and a voice called, ‘Where d’you want these boxes of apples, lady?’
Amy looked up prepared to argue.
‘I haven’t ordered any – Oh, hello, Vic. What are you doing here on a Wednesday?’
‘I wondered if you were free to meet me tonight, for a drink, or a meal if you like?’
‘I’m going into Cardiff,’ she explained. ‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back.’
‘Pity it isn’t on Friday, I could give you a lift.’
‘No need; I have a lift.’
‘Harry Beynon, is it?’
‘What business is it of yours?’ she demanded.
‘Got me the sack he did, your brother-in-law. Persuaded me to add a few items to the lorry when I loaded up his order. Copper tube and plaster board, then let me down when I was caught.’
‘You stole from your boss and you say it was Harry’s fault?’
‘Persuaded me he did. Promised to pay and say he’d asked for the extra and let me out of it. But he didn’t.’
Amy was quiet, as Vic went on explaining how and what goods had been stolen. So these were some of the papers that Prue had threatened him with. What else was Harry besides a thief? She ushered Vic Honeyman out and closed the shop.
‘A coward. That’s what,’ she muttered as she went upstairs to get ready to meet him.
Harry had to attend a meeting in Cardiff at the Park Hotel, and Amy sat in the Sophia Gardens reading a book until he had finished. They went for an early meal and as they ate, Amy mentioned Victor Honeyman.
‘I saw a man who claims you got him the sack,’ she said. ‘We had a drink together at The Drovers and he took me home after.’
Harry looked at her, his laughing eyes bearing a glint of something other than his usual good humour.
‘Don’t try blackmail to persuade me to talk to Prue. I’ll tell her our plans when I think the time is right.’
‘Harry! What an awful thing to say! He took me home after buying me a drink. That’s all!’ She waited until she felt calmer then asked. ‘Did you? Get him the sack?’
‘I used the money to buy the house for us. He was caught but it was a risk he took. There’s nothing noble about owning up when there’s no need. I haven’t bought anything from that builder’s merchants since though.’
‘Harry, now Freddy’s working for you, you wouldn’t involve him in anything – shady – would you?’
‘No. He’s my son, isn’t he? I’ll look after him, don’t you worry. Getting on well he is; understands a lot of the business already. Sharp. More a man than a boy, for all he’s not yet sixteen.’
Something of the day had gone sour for Amy. She knew from his expression when she raised the subject that their relationship was doomed to continue in the same semi-secret way into the forseeable future. Could she accept that? Spend even more years going nowhere?
She had always known Harry was weak. She had been let down by him, badly. Once when they were young and before he was ready for marriage, he had refused to admit the baby she carried was his, had tut-tutted with the rest of the village when she came home some time later with Freddy, whom he now proudly called his son.
Her eyes glazed over as she thought of the second child, who she had nursed for those few hours before he had died. That was when their relationship had been renewed, after he had married Prue. As before, he could not face the embarrassment and had let her cope with it alone. The attempted abortion had not succeeded and in the months before the baby was born she did not see him. At the time of the baby’s death he had sent a bunch of flowers, without even a card to say who they were from.
Now he talked of blackmail. How easy it would have been for her then. She looked at him, finishing his meal, a smile of contentment on his face as he thought of his son, now working in the firm; a son who did not bear his name.
‘I want to go home.’
‘But I thought we’d go and see a play, or a film?’
‘Take me home.’
‘What have I said now?’ He was slightly exasperated. ‘Don’t spoil the day out.’
‘You’ve said nothing. What makes you think I’ll spoil your day? Nothing upsets me. I’m Amy, that “good sort”, remember?’ She stood up and collected her coat from the stand and without waiting for Harry, left the restaurant.
She walked up the street fast, crossing the road heedless of traffic and not knowing where she was going. She went into a cinema, seeking solitary darkness, and sat in a cocoon of isolation in an empty row not seeing the screen, only aware of the loneliness without Harry.
She had been here before, in this deep dark misery, wondering if she should finally end the affair with him. But other than moving right away, starting again somewhere without any friends, it was impossible. Knowing his faults brought anger, but the anger was with herself for not being strong enough to break away. And she called Harry weak. How she wished she could face never seeing him again. What could she do to motivate herself to blot him out of her life? ‘Till death us do part’ didn’t have to be said in front of a parson. So were they tied for the rest of their days to this half life? On the screen two lovers kissed as all their troubles were ended, and some of the watchers stood up and left. Without waiting for the main film, Amy stood and shuffled out after them.
Harry searched the streets for an hour, then went back to where he had parked the car. He waited there for another hour then, leaving a note for her on the windscreen, went for a drink. He came back after a further two hours to find the note in the gutter and his car missing.
Amy. She’s done it again! he thought. He checked to see he had enough money for the fare and walked to the railway station. He had twenty minutes to wait for the Swansea train and as it was getting cold, he went into the waiting room. Amy stared at him with complete disbelief when he opened the door.
‘Harry! How did you find me?’
‘Where’s the car?’ he demanded.
‘Car? I don’t know. I can’t remember where we parked. I’ve been in a cinema for ages. Can’t you find the car either?’
‘It’s been stolen. I thought you…’
Suddenly they were laughing and hugging and all that mattered was being together. Damn the future, Amy thought, it’s today that’s real.
They went back to Swansea on the train, after reporting the loss of the car, then by bus to Llan Gwyn. Pooling their remaining money, they decided to have a taxi for the last part of their journey.
‘You get out at the beginning of the houses, Amy love,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll go on right to my door; that way we’re less likely to be seen.’
‘There won’t be many people about now,’ Amy pointed out. ‘They’ll all be indoors listening to the radio.’
But as Amy walked parallel to the church and the school and was about to turn into the lane behind the shop, she noticed that the village street was far from empty. Groups of people were gathered around the houses, and several policemen were among them. She went in to see the children, then phoned Evie to find out what had happened.
Harry’s taxi drew up near Mrs French’s house and he saw that all the neighbours were outside open doors, standing in groups, waiting. An ambulance drove along the main road and as Prue was nowhere to be seen, he walked back to the road to see what was happening.
The ambulance stopped at the end of Nelly’s lane, and several policemen stood near it.
‘What’s happening then?’ he asked. ‘Someone ill?’
‘Found a body, up by the castle ruin. Don’t know who he is; young chap, but not from here,’ Constable Harris told him.
‘Thank goodness,’ Harry said. ‘Thought it might have been old Nelly.’ He stood with the policemen and waited while the stretcher was taken up and the men returned with their sad load. He looked at the scarred face of the young man but no recognition came. Gradually, the street cleared, lights went out and Harry at last saw Prue, who had been with Evie and Timothy, and who had also looked into the dead face.
‘Fancy, a sudden death in the village,’ Harry said. ‘Never been known.’
‘It was the criminal who attacked that policeman, the one I reported as a suspicious vagrant,’ Prue told him. She explained what had happened and he let her talk. That way she was less likely to ask where he had been, although the car theft gave him an excellent story.
When they reached home, Prue did not go inside, she stood talking to the neighbours for a while, then noticed that Monica French had not been told. She knocked on her door to spread the interesting news.
The incident of the dead man was not high on Harry’s mind the following day. He was thinking of Freddy, and the way he had taken to the business. Even if he and Amy did not get together he would have Freddy and, with or without his name, Freddy was still his son. The thought pleased him more and more. If he did leave Prue and go to live with Amy, his son might despise him for the years he had not owned him. His explanations of loyalty might not sound very noble when compared with his lack of loyalty to Amy and Freddy.
He would be foolish to risk it. Prue was not a loving wife and they had not been very successful at attempts to make their relationship more close. Prue was undemonstrative and tightened up rather than relaxed at his shows of affection. But she was a good wife in every other respect. With Amy as his mistress, life was good.
He had already started proceedings to make the house over to her. That would please her and she would not press so hard for him to leave Prue, for a while at least. The house was almost ready for occupation. Soon, he would hand her the deeds and she would be able to move in. The rooms above the shop could be let, she would have a small income from them, yes, she would see the sense of letting things continue as they were. They would both be better off.
His mind made up, he rang the solicitor and told him to make haste with the transfer of ownership then went home to talk to Prue. Best to set her mind at rest as soon as possible. He looked at his watch. Freddy had gone to collect some plumbing fittings, but he would be back soon and it wouldn’t hurt to leave the phone unattended for a while. He locked the door and using one of the firm’s lorries, drove home.
He was surprised to see the carrier bike outside his house, Then he smiled. Since Prue had stopped shopping at Amy’s, she often rang to ask him to bring something home. She must have missed him and asked young Freddy. As he parked the lorry in the confined space of the close, he saw he was correct, Freddy emerged from the house and waved before getting on his bike. Harry hailed him and ran to talk to him.
Freddy was very flushed, the redness reaching high into the roots of his brown hair. He refused to meet Harry’s gaze.
‘Hello, Uncle Harry, I’ve been—’
Harry waved away his explanation. ‘Don’t worry, I bet you’ve been shopping for Auntie Prue, right? She’s always asking me to bring something from the shops, and now she’s got you at it.’ He patted the strong shoulder and smiled at his son. He thought again of how big and mature he was. A moustache, unshaped, but dark and thick, grew on his upper lip, making Freddy look far older than his years. His body was powerfully built, his arms filling the sleeves of the old coat he wore to work. Harry thought he would give him an advance on his wages and ask Amy to buy him a new coat. He couldn’t have his son looking anything but smart. He’d pay for dressing, as his mother would have said.
Freddy rode off and Harry walked into the house. Prue was in the kitchen, she was polishing the brass, the pokers and other fireside ornaments on the table which was spread with newspaper. She too looked slightly flushed and she did not look up when he entered. That was not unusual, and Harry smiled and said, ‘So you’re using Freddy as an errand boy, are you?’ He was smiling, but the smile slid from his face when Prue said angrily, ‘I don’t want him to come here again. He’s Amy’s son and I want nothing to do with any of them.’
Harry stared at her; at the fingers rubbing furiously at the brass, at the gloved hands, so clearly showing her anger.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, dreading her reply. Had she found out he was Freddy’s father? That must be it. He didn’t know what to say, whether to deny it, bluff it out, or own up and tell her of his decision to stay with her, to make a success of their marriage and never see Amy again. He realised he did not know how she would react to either response. Married for all these years and he did not know her at all.
‘Freddy’s a fine boy,’ he began, trying desperately to think. ‘Strong and very useful in the firm. He’s going to be a real asset. He’s so mature and grown-up. You’d never think he’s only sixteen. ’
‘I want you to sack him. ’ Prue still had not looked up from her furious rubbing. The brass seemed to be taking all her attention, yet Harry recognised the tension in her voice and knew something had angered her. She must know.
‘You know. Who told you?’
She looked up then and stared at him. She did not speak, but waited for him to continue. Cleverly she waited, knowing he would not be able to stand the silence. He would have to say more and she would find out easier than by asking her own questions, what he had not wanted her to know. She was not worried, a sense of excitement filled her. Watching him and feeling the guilt flowing from him, she allowed her own guilt, and the sensations of the recent love-making, to fade.
‘You know,’ he repeated. Prue waited. ‘About Freddy.’ Then Prue had to speak, Harry had turned away, presuming she knew all, he was not going to enlarge on the brief words.
‘You’d better tell me.’
‘All right, so Freddy is my son. It’s a miracle you haven’t worked it out before. What are you going to do about it? Don’t do anything hasty, Prue, let’s talk about it. I don’t want to lose you. Yes,’ he went on quickly. ‘I’ve finished with Amy. It’s all over. I want to stay with you, and Freddy will stay in the firm. He’s a fine boy, Prue. My son. I know I should have told you years ago, but—’
He stared in horror at Prue, who was reaching for the brass pokers on the table.
‘No, Prue. Don’t be stupid. It’s not that important. Prue—!’ His voice was cut off as the heavy poker hit him on the side of his head and made him stagger.
Prue felt sick. She was still unwashed from Freddy’s love-making and she felt unclean. Amy’s son, a fine revenge for stealing her husband. But Harry’s son. She felt clouds fill her brain, shutting out the unbelievable. Blocking the shame and guilt and humility. Harry’s fault. Harry’s fault. Harry’s fault. Each time the words issued from her tight lips, she hit him. He stood up once, and seemed to be coming for her, his eyes glazed, his face blue. She struck him again and again, hate pouring from her. He tottered, then fell towards her. Prue tried to move away, to escape from his final embrace, but she fell beneath him. Her head snapped back hard against the grate and she lay still.