The Emerald Valley (20 page)

Harry sighed, his ambitions temporarily frustrated. Eddie Roberts might be related to him by marriage, but Harry did not care for him. In Mam's words, Eddie was ‘a bit too big for his boots'. As for approaching Tom Heron with his ideas about joining the Labour Party, Harry would as soon have entered a lion's den. Tom knew he was only a relatively new member of the Federation – as likely as not he would pat him on the head and tell him to come back when he had grown up a bit.

But if George Young or Owen Wynn-Jones had been there, Harry felt he might very well have taken his courage in both hands and spoken to one of them. Great men they might be, but their greatness somehow made them more approachable than someone who knew him more intimately.

Or perhaps they just seem more approachable because they're not here, Harry thought with a flash of insight. I just think I could speak to them because I don't have to put it to the test.

‘Hey – Harry – we thought we'd find you here.'

Harry turned to see Tommy and Reg Clements slipping in under the awning.

‘Yes, we saw your Mam just now and she said to tell you she's gone on home.'

‘On the loose, Harry, on the loose! Have another half of bitter.'

Harry dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his loose change. The beer in the tent was being sold at a special cheap rate, but even so he did not think he could afford it. Besides, now he knew the Labour Party officials were not here, the appeal of the hop-heavy, smoky air had lessened.

‘Have you seen Owen Wynn-Jones on your travels?' he enquired.

The two Clements boys looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses.

‘Who?'

‘Owen Wynn-Jones – who made the speech?'

‘Oh, him.' The Clements' interest in politics was predictably negligible. ‘What do you want him for?'

Harry coloured. ‘Oh, I don't know, I just wanted to see him again,' he said and their ribald laughter made him think; coming out into the political arena was not going to be as easy as he had imagined. They were all on the same side, yes, but at his age and with no background for it, no one was going to take him seriously – or if they did, they would probably think him, like Eddie Roberts, ‘too big for his boots'.

‘I think I'll have a walk round outside, anyway.' Harry said. ‘Get some fresh air.'

They shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. You'll know where to find us.'

‘Too true I will,' Harry joked.

Outside the beer tent it was soft dusk. The band was playing for the dancing: ‘Ramona … I hear the mission bells above … Ramona … they're ringing out their songs of love …' and on the square of field lit by the carbide lamps couples were waltzing. Harry stopped for a minute to watch them and saw, out of the corner of his eye, a figure he recognised standing alone under the trees.

Margaret!

Dare he go and speak to her again, Harry wondered, remembering she had turned down his invitation to go in the swinging-boats? But then – nothing venture nothing gain, and he could not imagine her actually snubbing him.

Trying to appear nonchalant, he sidled up to her. ‘Hello. Finished on your stall, then?'

She half-turned, smiling. ‘Oh yes. We sold out a long time ago; we did really well.'

‘Good. Money for the kitty.'

Her face went serious. ‘How can you joke about it? My Dad says …'

‘Where is your Dad?' he asked.

‘He's gone home. And Mum. They had to give Owen Wynn-Jones supper and then he has to get back to Wales. He's got another rally there tomorrow.'

‘Oh, I see.' Harry tried to think of something clever or appreciative to say, but words failed him.

Just think of it! Owen Wynn-Jones having supper at her house – sitting at the table where she sat! He looked at her with respectful eyes and it seemed to him she had taken on some of the glamour of the great man.

‘Would you like to dance?' he said.

‘Oh – I'm not very good. We have lessons at school, but …'

‘I'm not very good either,' he admitted ‘And I can't see how you can dance properly on grass either. When we go to Madame Roland's classes, the floor is polished up with French chalk or something and the really serious ones wear special shoes.'

‘Special
shoes?
' She sounded fascinated.

‘Yes. They take them in a bag so as not to wear them out of doors.'

‘Oh!' Her eyes narrowed dreamily. ‘I wish I could go to Madame Roland's.'

Harry seized his opportunity. ‘I'll take you if you like.'

‘
Would
you?' She broke off, biting her lip. ‘Oh, it's no good, I'd never be allowed.'

‘Why not?'

‘Well, for one thing I'm supposed to be concentrating on my exams so that I can matriculate. It costs quite a lot for me to go to the Higher Elementary.'

‘He pays for you?' Harry asked, surprised.

‘Yes. £4 7s 6d a term.'

‘But I thought if you got a scholarship …'

‘That it's free? Yes, it is. But I didn't! For one thing we missed the time for applying and for another, I'm not really that clever. But I do want to do well. I don't want to let Dad down. I mean – paying for a
girl.
So many parents say they'd do it for a boy, but girls only get married anyway.'

‘That's true enough, I suppose,' Harry said, thinking of Dolly and Amy. Matriculation was all very well, but not really necessary in order to run a home and have babies. ‘You can't study all the time though,' he pressed her. ‘And Madame Roland's is on a Saturday night. You could always have a lie-in on Sunday morning.'

‘Oh no, I have to go to chapel.' She spoke fiercely, with none of the resentment Harry himself displayed on the occasions when Mam put her foot down and said it was about time
he
put in an appearance in the family pew.

‘I've never seen you in chapel,' he said, trying to impress her with his doubtful piety.

‘That's because you're Methodists. We're Baptists,' she said and he was startled to realise how much she knew about him. ‘Anyway, I don't think Dad really approves of dancing. It's supposed to be one of the devices of the devil.'

‘Your Dad thinks that?' Harry was amazed.

‘He's not really one to lay down the law, but I have heard it said. And I'll tell you something he definitely
doesn't
approve of,' she added with a sly twinkle, ‘and that's strong drink. You smell of it!'

Harry's face was a picture. ‘Oh, I didn't know – I only had a half …'

‘You should sign the pledge,' she said. ‘Turn teetotal. It does you no good, you know. It's a waste of money and people do really awful things when they've had too much to drink.'

‘Well, I haven't!' Harry said indignantly, feeling he had somehow been put to the test and failed miserably. ‘I can't see that just a drop does any harm.'

‘Maybe not.' She tilted her head to one side like a bird and red-gold bobbed hair fell tantalisingly over the square of freckled chest. ‘You asked me to dance just now.'

‘Well – yes …'

‘Then let's – or have you changed your mind?'

‘No, of course I haven't!'

Feeling a little nonplussed now that the invitation had caught up with him, Harry led her across the rough grass to the square where the dancing was in progress.

Dusk was falling rapidly now; in the beams of light from the carbide lamps moths pirouetted and swirled in their own waltzes and tarantellas and the crushed-grass smell overpowered the last remaining scent of hops in his nostrils.

With slight awkwardness he took hold of her, one hand tentatively resting on her waist, the other holding her hand. Her touch in contrast to his own moist palm was cool, but he could feel the warmth of her body through the thin georgette of her dress. He took a step and trod on her toe.

‘Sorry …'

‘It's all right. As long as you don't scratch my shoes; they're new …'

‘Oh – sorry … sorry …'

Never, he thought, had he apologized so often in the course of just a few minutes. And he was the one who was supposed to go to Madame Roland's dancing classes! But everywhere he moved his feet, hers seemed to be there first. And when he was not stepping on her toes, they were colliding with other couples. He couldn't enjoy the dance, couldn't even enjoy the contact with her. All he could think of was that she would consider him a clumsy, drunken oaf.

But rescue was at hand in the bulky, sweating shape of the MC. The dance became an ‘elimination waltz'and to Harry's enormous relief the first quarter of dancers to be instructed to leave the floor included them.

‘That's the end of our chances for a prize, then,' he said, trying to sound regretful.

‘Yes, and I think it's time I went home anyway,' Margaret replied.

Harry tried to marshal his thoughts quickly. Did she really have to go home or was she just trying to get away from him? Should he risk suggesting he walked her home – or was that asking for a put-down? He tossed it over quickly in his mind, embarrassment and fear of humiliation warring with the desire to stay with her and the attraction of retaining a link, however tenuous, with the politician who was having supper at her home. There was no contest; the combination of two kinds of romance was irresistible.

‘I'll come with you if you like,' Harry said graciously. ‘We don't live far away from you, after all.'

‘But don't you want to stay and have another drink?' she asked.

‘No, I told you I've had enough,' Harry said. ‘But there will be men about who have had a drop too much. It's not out of my way. And I'd like to see you home – if you'll let me,' he added.

She smiled, the generous smile that lit up her face, making it especially pretty.

‘All right. I can't argue with that, can I?'

‘And I promise not to tread on your toes,' Harry said drily.

Away from the field there seemed little to talk about. Harry's mind was suddenly occupied by such burning questions as whether he should hold her hand. He decided against it. He did not want to scare her off and after all she might not really have wanted him to see her home at all – just been unable to think of a way to refuse the offer.

Tired as they were and not hurrying, the walk took them a quarter of an hour or so. As they passed the end of the Rank Harry looked along with some apprehension – he did not want to be seen by any of the neighbours. But those who were not still at the fete were safely inside their houses and there were no calls of ‘Evening, Harry!' heavy with innuendo.

Past the end of the Rank they continued to climb. The road twisted with the curve of the hill, forking towards the front entrance of Captain Fish's house where Dolly had been in service and Victor was still employed as gardener, but they by-passed that turning and instead took the next, parallel to it and even higher up the hill.

The houses that followed the road here were terraced, but superior to the Rank. Many boasted porches, some had their own front gates too. But a cobbled right-of-way ran along the back of them just the same and Margaret led the way between the houses to reach it.

Half-way along she stopped. ‘This is it, then. Thanks for seeing me home.'

There was a light in her kitchen window, but the curtains were drawn. Was Owen Wynn-Jones still here, Harry wondered, sitting at the table in that lighted kitchen, eating cold meat and cheese and pickle?

‘What time will he be going?' he asked, before he could stop himself.

‘Who?' she asked.

‘Owen Wynn-Jones.'

‘Oh, I don't know.' Her tone was cool suddenly. How could she be that disinterested? Harry wondered. If he had her opportunity, he would not miss a minute with the great man.

But the subject was closed and there was nothing else to be said about it.

She turned towards the door. The light caught her hair, making it molten gold and throwing shadows on the tip-tilted nose and wide mouth, and suddenly he forget all about Owen Wynn-Jones.

‘Can I see you again?' he asked.

For a brief moment he caught her hesitation and his heart sank. She didn't want to! Then she nodded. ‘Yes, all right.'

‘When? Tomorrow? It's Whit week – you're not at school … and I'm not at work …'

‘You mean go somewhere in the day?'

‘Yes – why not?'

‘Like a picnic?'

‘Well, yes.' The thought hadn't crossed his mind, but it sounded inviting.

‘All right. Three o'clock. I'll bring some food – you need not worry about that …'

‘We're not actually starving yet,' he said with grim humour.

‘Oh – I didn't mean …'

‘No, it's all right …' It was like the dancing – they were treading on one another's toes, trying hard not to trip.

From inside the house a woman's voice called: ‘Margaret? Is that you?'

She unlatched the door. ‘I'd better go.'

‘All right – goodbye, then.'

Briefly she was framed in the brightly-lit doorway, then she was gone. Harry stood motionless for a moment. What a day! This was a Whit Tuesday he would not forget in a hurry.

May became June and dreamed towards July. No spirals or clouds of black smoke belched from pit chimneys to mar the clarity of the sky, and the wheels that raised and lowered the cages stood motionless, like matchbox models against the tranquil blue.

In the mornings and late afternoons the sunshine bathed the town in golden light, casting shadows first one way and then the other across the hoop of the main street and transforming the uniform greyness of grimy stone to a hypnotic cocktail of light and shade. It shone, too, through the leaves of the horse chestnut trees at the mouth of the New Road, freckling the pavement and the wooden seats where shoppers could sit and rest and watch the world go by; and it sharpened the paint-box colours of the flowers that bloomed in the neatly kept beds just clear of the shadow of the trees – geraniums, vermilion red; delphiniums, brightest blue; marigolds, burnt orange.