The Emerald Valley (12 page)

‘Hey – are you all right?' Harry asked.

‘Yes …' She looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes suspiciously bright. Her uniform hat had fallen off, revealing a tangle of dark curls that framed a pretty, oval face, and though he did not know her name he recognised her as a girl who lived in Tower View, a terrace of houses higher up the hill than Greenslade Terrace.

‘Let me help …' He bent down, retrieving the tennis racket and the furthest-flung of her books, and as she straightened up he saw the holes in the knees of her stockings revealing large bleeding grazes. ‘You're not all right! You've skinned your knees!' he said.

She glanced down, surprised almost, then the dark eyes suddenly welled tears. ‘Oh – my stockings!' And then, as the numbness receded and the sharp pain began: ‘Ouch! They hurt!'

‘I'll bet they do! You took a real tumble!' He picked up another book and handed it to her. ‘Have you got a handkerchief?'

‘Somewhere …' She fumbled in her pockets, fighting back the tears as she pulled out a small white square of fabric. Then she bent to dab ineffectively at the flow of blood.

He watched helplessly, trying to remember if his own handkerchief was clean enough to offer as a substitute bandage and deciding it was not a risk he could take. After a minute she straightened up, flexing her leg.

‘Oh, I'm in such a mess! But if I go home I'll be late for school.'

‘How are you getting there?' he asked.

‘I've got to walk. The buses and trains aren't running. I started out nice and early and now …' Her lip wobbled.

‘I should go home if I were you,' he suggested.

‘No.' She hoisted her satchel on to her shoulder, took a step and winced. ‘No – I've got to get to school.'

‘Walk? Like that? All the way to South Compton?'

‘Yes. Oh, what a fool I am!'

‘Which way are you going?' He was walking along beside her. ‘Up South Hill?'

She nodded, holding her lip tightly between her teeth.

‘I'm going that way,' he said. ‘Give me your satchel and I'll carry it for you.'

She shot him a nervous look.

‘It's all right – I really am,' he said. ‘My sister lives up that way and I'm going to see her.'

‘Oh, yes.' He saw her relax slightly. ‘You're Harry Hall, aren't you?'

It was his turn to look surprised. ‘How did you know that?'

‘Oh, I just know. You've got a brother Jack who's a teacher.'

‘That's right. Come on, give me your satchel.'

This time she did as he said. She was limping badly, he noticed, though she was trying not to show it, and when they passed a group of people walking in the opposite direction who stared at her tattered stockings and bleeding knees, he glanced sideways at her and saw the hot colour come up in her cheeks.

‘I must have twisted my ankle on the edge of the pavement,' she said with a rueful smile and it suddenly struck him how attractive she was, blushing and smiling like that. This was not something he'd noticed before, he'd dismissed her as a schoolgirl – and one of the nobs from the Higher Elementary, at that. Now he realised she could only be a year or so younger than he was and out of school uniform would probably look a very pretty young lady. The knowledge flustered him and he said quickly, ‘You ought to be more careful.'

‘I know. I'm always doing things like that,' she said and he got the feeling she was poking fun at herself and liked her for it.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, then she asked, ‘You don't go to school, I suppose?'

‘No. I work at Middle Pit, but we're on strike.'

As he said this, he found himself wishing for the first time that he had taken the scholarship as Mr Davies had urged. But at the same time he felt she was impressed by the fact that he was a working man.

‘I just hope you win this strike,' she said. ‘I think it's terrible what you have to put up with.'

‘We'll win.' He said it with more confidence than he felt because he thought it sounded good, and was rewarded by a gleam of admiration in her eyes.

They were at the top of the hill now and up ahead of them, along the straight, he could see the rank of houses where Dolly lived.

Walking in silence, he considered. Should he go on a bit further with the girl? She was still less than half-way to school, and the company was probably helping her to forget the stinging of her knees. Besides, he was enjoying himself. Harry had never been a great one for running after girls. For the sake of his work mates he pretended he was, of course, but in fact he had never met one who really interested him before as this one did.

But the bottle of medicine Charlotte had given him for Dolly was bouncing against his side, reminding him that his sister needed him too. It would take him at least an extra forty minutes to walk all the way to South Compton even if he ran all the way back, and if Charlotte got to hear of it he would certainly get the length of her tongue. Regretfully Harry decided that Dolly was where his duty lay.

‘I'd walk all the way with you, but my sister's not very well and she's on her own with the nippers,' he said apologetically.

‘Oh, that's all right – I didn't expect you to do that,' she said.

But he saw her lip wobble again and he said impulsively, ‘Well, I can't come all the way, but I will walk as far as the Chapel with you.'

‘That's a long way! If your sister's waiting …'

‘She doesn't know I'm coming and it will only take me a few minutes,' he assured her.

‘No, you mustn't.' She stopped, catching at the strap of her satchel. ‘If this is as far as you go, I'll be all right now.'

He let her take the satchel and as she hoisted it onto her shoulder she managed a wry smile.

‘Bye-bye, then. And thanks!'

‘It's OK,' he said, awkward suddenly, and he stood for a few moments in the entrance to Dolly's rank watching the girl walk on up the straight, slightly-sloping road, limping still but pushing on with determination. Then, with a sigh, he turned and walked down the path between the houses.

Although built on quite the other side of the valley, Dolly's rank was not unlike Greenslade Terrace, with a cobbled way running past the back doors wide enough for the delivery-men to drive their horses and carts, and blocks of privies and washhouses and sheds on the opposite side. The houses were similar in design, too, – downstairs a scullery, a front room and a living-room – known as the kitchen – and upstairs three bedrooms.

Even before he opened the back door Harry could hear the loud crying and his heart sank. Then, as he went in, he saw that Fred – the elder boy, and a rascal at 2½ – was climbing on top of the table in an effort to reach the cupboard, while Bob, a year younger, sat in a wailing heap in the middle of the floor. Of Dolly there was no sign.

‘What do you think you're doing?' he asked Fred.

The boy glared at him. ‘Fred hungry.'

‘And Fred'll hurt, too, if he falls off that table.' Harry scooped him up, and Fred yelled angrily.

‘No – no! Fred hungry!'

‘Where's your Mam?' Harry asked.

Fred continued to shriek and Bob's wailing increased in volume to match it. Desperate to quieten them, Harry opened the cupboard and found a box of rusks, giving them one each.

‘Here you are. Now shut up, for Pete's sake!'

At that moment the back door opened and Dolly appeared. A plump, pretty girl with rosy cheeks and her father's mild blue eyes, Dolly was normally the picture of health. Not so today; Harry was shocked by her ill appearance – as white as a ghost, with huge circles under her eyes – and she stood for a moment gripping the door-post as if she might fall down.

‘Oh, Harry – what are you doing here?' she asked weakly.

‘Mam sent me. Victor said you were bilious and Mam looked out this bottle of stuff …' He pulled it out of his pocket, holding it out to her, but Dolly only laughed harshly.

‘Ha! Much good that'll do me!'

‘You can at least try it after I've brought it for you,' he said.

Dolly picked her way over the rusk-eating children on the floor and sank down in a chair.

‘There's no point,' she said wearily.

Harry felt a chill of fear. ‘What d'you mean, Doll?'

She shook her head, not answering, and the chill deepened.

‘Dolly – what is it?' he pressed her.

‘Oh, nothing, Harry,' she said a little impatiently. ‘I haven't told anybody yet.'

‘You haven't …' He was shaking now, as he had shaken when he found his father so ill. It was strange, but sickness had not been real to him before that, and now it was much
too
real – as real as Dolly's white face and dark hollow eyes. His glance moved to the children on the floor, stuffing the last of the rusks into their mouths and looking around for more like hungry birds. What would they do if anything happened to Dolly?

‘Dolly, for goodness' sake – you're not really ill, are you?' he asked, and the terror in his voice must have pierced the fog of her sickness, because she laughed suddenly.

‘Oh, don't worry, Harry. It's nothing nine months won't cure!'

‘Nine … oh!' His voice trailed away as he realised what she meant. ‘You're going to … ?'

She mopped at her face with a handkerchief.

‘Yes, that's right. I'm going to have another baby. And if you tell a soul, I'll never speak to you again. Nobody knows yet, not even Victor. I wanted to be sure before I said anything to anyone.'

‘Oh,' Harry said again. And then, ‘But were you ill like this before?'

She shook her head. ‘No, not as bad as this. I was a bit queasy, it's true. But this time I've felt really terrible. Right from the start, you might say – the very first day. This is the worst, but I feel sick all the time, Harry, from morning to night.'

‘Isn't there anything you can do?' Harry asked helplessly.

‘It'll pass. It's passing now and I'll be better presently. Only I don't think I can face giving the boys their breakfast, I really don't. D'you think you could … ?'

‘Yes, what do they have?'

Following her instructions, he prepared bowls of rusks and hot milk, with a cup of weak tea for Fred and a bottle of sugar water for Bob. Now that their mother was in view once more and their tummies were full they had both stopped crying, but for all that they were still a noisy pair, with loud voices and so much surplus energy it was exhausting merely to watch them.

Harry wondered how Dolly would cope if she was ill again. ‘Do you want me to come tomorrow morning?' he asked, when he had eventually done all the jobs he could to help her out.

‘Oh, you don't want to bother like that,' she replied, but remembering the chaotic situation he had walked in on, he insisted.

‘It's all right. With the strike on, I've nothing better to do.'

‘You are a good boy,' Dolly said, hugging him, and Harry had the grace to feel slightly ashamed.

Yes, he did want to help his sister out, of course. But that was not the whole story. Already, at the back of his mind, he was busy working it out – if he left at the same time as he had done today, he might see the girl again. Yes, if he was honest, that was more than half the reason. He wanted to see her again … and he didn't even know her name! Stupid – he should have asked her. Well, if he saw her again tomorrow he would.

It never occurred to Harry when he got home to ask Charlotte if she knew who the girl was, any more than it occurred to him to break Dolly's confidence and explain her sickness. Harry could be a silent soul when he wanted to be. So when Charlotte asked after Dolly he simply said she was feeling a bit better now, but that he had offered to go back and help her out with the boys tomorrow anyway. He did not mention the girl at all, but he thought of her all right as he fiddled about in his pigeon loft, seeing her oval face with the dark eyes threatening to spill tears, and the determined mouth holding them back. Yes, he decided, tomorrow he would not only find out her name, he would walk a bit further with her.

It was at supper that he heard about the ‘blackleg train' and when he did, his heart sank.

‘There'll be some trains tomorrow,' Charlotte said, dishing up potatoes with the spoon clattering so loudly on the plate it could be heard all along the Rank. ‘Molly Clements told me about it just now, when we were getting in the washing.'

‘What do you mean – trains?' Harry asked. He had heard Molly Clements calling across the gardens to his mother while he was in with the pigeons, but had kept his head low. Molly Clements was known for a chatterer and he had not wanted to get caught up in a long conversation. Now, however, he pricked up his ears.

‘Trains – there're going to be trains. The first one's due out from Bath at half-past eight,' Charlotte said patiently, adding a spoonful of leeks to the potatoes.

‘How can there be trains? Everybody's on strike.' That was James, speaking from his corner of the sofa.

‘Don't ask me how. Somebody's volunteered to drive them, I suppose.' Charlotte said a little shortly.

‘Well, that's disgusting!' James pulled himself slightly more upright. ‘How can we ever hope to win a strike when people are willing to cut our throats like that? Blackleg labour, that's what it'll be. College lads, no doubt, and toffs who don't know or care a bugger for the likes of us.'

He began to wheeze again, made short of breath by the effort of losing his temper, and Charlotte threw him a warning look.

‘Don't upset yourself now, Dad. It's not worth it.'

‘No, you're right, it's not worth it, but it's disgusting all the same,' James said sadly. ‘A blackleg train! Well, now I've heard it all.'

Harry said nothing, but something inside him had gone very still, very quiet. If there was going to be a train at half-past eight, the strike would not be the only thing to suffer. His chance of seeing the girl again would be gone, too. She wouldn't walk all the way to South Compton if she could ride. Nobody would.