The Hills and the Valley (12 page)

Perhaps if she is taking things it is just because she's unsettled and unhappy, Margaret thought. Their lives were in such a state of upheaval, finding themselves among strangers in a strange place with even the friendly cows in the fields looking like monsters from another planet and their home and their mother way out of reach. Perhaps when they settle down a bit she'll stop behaving in this way.

She dared not mention her suspicions to Harry. He would, without a doubt, believe the worst and be very angry. He was already against her having them and trouble of this sort would be just the ammunition he needed to insist they should be found a new billet. But Margaret did not want that. Though she knew that there was a great deal of sense in what he said and she should not be trying to hold down a job and look after two problem girls in her condition, she was reluctant to admit defeat. She was, after all, trained in teaching children if not actually bringing them up. She
should
be able to handle problems like this one.

Margaret turned out of the school yard and started along the road that led from Sand erley to Hillsbridge. It was a straight road and mercifully in this direction mainly ran downhill. At first, it led through the outskirts of Sanderley and Margaret glanced longingly at the houses she passed. It was already dark and no chinks of light showed at the windows but she knew that behind the blackouts the families would be gathered around their fires, having their tea. Perhaps in some of them mothers would be feeding babies, as she would soon be doing. In spite of the cold wind which seemed to be blowing right through her coat, Margaret felt a glow of warmth and excitement and momentarily forgot the problems of her ‘vackies'. For as long as she could remember she had loved babies – even as a little girl she had liked nothing better than to push out the neighbours'prams – and as soon as she and Harry were married she had begun to long for one of her own. At first it had not been practicable. She had needed to work both to justify her training and to add her income to Harry's to set up home. But soon she had been unable to bear the thought of putting it off any longer and the months of waiting and longing had begun. How endless they had seemed! Sometimes Margaret had despaired of ever encountering the first tell-tale signs. Suppose I can't have a baby, she worried and the thought had started a deep despair inside her. So often babies came when they were not wanted – what supreme irony it would be if she, wanting one so much, was never able to conceive. Never to feel new life moving within her. Never to hold her own child, and Harry's, in her arms. Never to bury her face in a small, sweet smelling bundle or examine tiny perfect hands and feet and know that they belonged to
her
child – hers!

But now these fears had receded to the world of shadows. The longed for baby was a reality. She remembered with a thrill the first time she had felt it move – nothing more than a faint tick that might almost have been her own heart beating with excitement. But when it had come again she knew it was not and she had pressed her hands to her still flat stomach and caught the glow of happiness, holding it, cherishing it. Now, at least, her slim boyish figure was beginning to become rounder, her breasts fuller, her waist was thickening. And when the baby kicked as she lay in bed at night she would take Harry's hand and press it to the spot whispering: ‘Did you feel that? Did you feel it?'

Now, walking along the dark pavement which reached to the point where a crossroads marked the perimeter of Sanderley, she was aware of a slight crampy discomfort and slowed her pace from brisk to moderate. Exercise wouldn't hurt her. Dr Carter had assured her on that point or she would not still be walking the two miles each way daily. But she had no intention of exerting herself. She would do nothing which might pose even the smallest risk to the baby. If she was cold she could always warm up over the fire when she got home. And an extra five minutes would be neither here or there to Elaine and Marie.

As she thought of them again the rosy glow of happiness which anticipating the arrival of the baby had brought faded again. In some ways she almost wished that Harry had had his way in the beginning and found a new billet for them. Having them there when the baby arrived would pose problems and nothing would be quite the way she had planned it. She had thought it would be just her and Harry and the baby, now unless the war ended unexpectedly or their mother came and took them back to London there would be Elaine and Marie too. But it was too late to worry about that. She'd cope. She had to.

Margaret reached the crossroads at the end of long straggling Sanderley, crossed and began walking along the straight road that would lead her out into the country before dropping over the hill into Hillsbridge. The road ran between fields and on either side it was overhung with trees, trees which had now lost most of their leaves but which whispered and creaked in the biting wind. The leaves that had fallen lay like a carpet on the roadside and in places had drifted into sodden mounds. Margaret avoided them as best she could but in the pitch dark it was not easy and she cursed herself for having forgotten her torch. Not that it would be much good – the lighting restrictions extended to torches too. Harry had covered the bulb with tissue paper for her as the regulations insisted but even that tiny light must not be directed at the sky or the ground and carrying it at the right angle for two whole miles was tiresome.

Her thoughts having gone full circle, Margaret once more directed her mind to the problems Elaine was causing. This morning there had been a new development. Margaret had been unable to find a brooch she wanted to wear, a pretty little bar pin set with a tiny horseshoe. It was not in the jewellery box on her dressing table where she always kept it and a quick rummage through her clothes in the wardrobe had failed to turn it up still pinned to a dress or blouse. Instantly she had become suspicious whilst desperately trying not to be. When had she worn it last? Perhaps she had lost it then. Or put it somewhere silly when she had taken it off – the corner of a drawer or one of the odd cardboard jewellers'boxes which had come with presents and been stored in case she should one day need them. Or perhaps it had fallen down the back of her dressing table. All day, at odd moments, she had racked her brain trying to come up with an answer – any answer which would mean that she did not have to question Elaine and perhaps learn that the girl had been prying in her bedroom when she was not there.

Margaret sighed and managed to avoid a pile of leaves. Behind her she heard a car coming across the flat and edged closer into the side of the road. There had been a lot of accidents involving pedestrians since the lighting regulations had come into force – with half their headlights blacked out it was difficult for drivers to see people walking. Again Margaret wished she had her torch. If she had she could have turned to face the oncoming vehicle and he would have seen the pinprick of light, though it was also forbidden to shine torches in a way which might blind drivers.

The car was coming fast now – no, not a car, it sounded more like a motor cycle engine. Margaret relaxed slightly. A motor cycle wouldn't drive as close in to the side of the road. Another moment and it would be past her and gone. As it approached she half turned towards it.

And then it seemed everything happened at once.

Later, Ewart Brixey was to explain to Sergeant Button as clearly as his shocked mind would allow, ‘I was coming across the flat on my motor bike and sidecar and suddenly I saw something in the side of the road. I slammed on my brakes and there must have been leaves on the road. I just lost it, Serg, I couldn't do a thing. The bloody bike went haywire. It weren't my fault – honest to God it weren't.'

But to Margaret in that moment the apportionment of blame was something which scarcely mattered. She was aware only of a flash of intense, paralysing fear and a sense of inevitability which was somehow suspended out of time. Then, there was the numbing shock of something striking her, a peculiar weightless sensation as she flew through the air and the sickening thud as her body hit the cold wet road.

The silence was broken by the angry hum of the engine still-running, impotent like a trapped bumble bee, and the descending whirr as the spinning wheels slowed and stopped. But Margaret was aware of nothing. Nothing but a blackness, darker than the night, which hovered for seemingly endless seconds and then descended, relentlessly, until she was lost within it.

Amy was at home, working on a pile of accounts at the dining room table, when the telephone rang. She had never lost the habit of bringing work home with her for she always felt guilty just sitting and listening to the radio, as if she was somehow wasting precious time and she had never been one to knit or sew. And with the efficient Mrs Milsom still in residence there was no need for her to bother her head about household chores.

Besides, what had once been a habit was now a boon. As Ralph had suggested she should, Amy had managed to get some Government contract work and that added to labour shortages meant there was never enough time to complete all her paperwork while she was at the yard.

When Ralph was not out on his ARP warden duties he sometimes worked in the evenings, too, and they would sit in companionable silence occasionally discussing a problem and always rounding off the evening with a glass of whisky.

‘I hope the war doesn't mean we can't get a drink or I shall grind to a halt!' she said one evening.

Ralph had merely laughed. ‘Do you good to do without. You're too fond of the bottle for your own good, my dear.'

Amy had been outraged.

‘I don't drink much! Just a little to relax me and help me sleep. I'm no worse than you, anyway.'

‘A man is allowed to like whisky – a lady shouldn't,' he had teased and Amy snorted her disgust. She had never stuck by the rules of what a lady should or should not do. If she had she would not be where she was today.

Tonight, however, it was still too early to have started on the whisky and Amy was fortified merely by a cup of coffee. Ralph was out at an ARP training session and when she heard the telephone begin to ring she cursed softly at the interruption and called out to Barbara to answer it. A moment later the door opened and Barbara popped her head in. She looked pink and anxious.

‘Mum, it's Uncle Harry. He wants to speak to you.'

Amy was surprised. Harry rarely rang simply for a chat.

‘What does he want I wonder?' she mused.

‘I don't know. He sounded funny. I think there's something wrong …'

Amy went into the hall and picked up the telephone. ‘Hello Harry.'

‘Amy – something has happened. It's Margaret.'

‘Margaret!' Her first thought was the obvious one. ‘You mean the baby?'

‘No. She's had an accident. Walking home from school. She's been knocked down.'

‘Oh, my God!' Amy said. She was suddenly shaking all over, transported back through time to another accident. ‘Is she all right?'

‘I don't know. They've taken her to hospital. I'm going now.'

‘You want me to come with you?'

‘No – no need for that. I'm taking her mother with me. But we've got these two damned girls here. They haven't had anything to eat yet and I don't like to leave them. Do you think you could …?'

‘Yes, of course. I'll be right there.' Amy was trying to think as she spoke. ‘I've got the car – and some petrol. I'll be with you in five minutes.'

‘I won't wait if you don't mind, Amy. Just as long as I know you're coming.'

‘Of course. You get off, Harry. And Harry …' she paused, her voice breaking slightly, ‘I hope everything will be all right.'

‘Yes. Thanks. I don't know how long I'll be, Amy.'

‘Don't worry about it. Don't worry about a thing – except Margaret.'

She replaced the receiver. Her mind seemed to have gone blank. No, not blank. A kaleidoscope of whirling thoughts none of which she could get hold of. Barbara was hovering in the doorway, her face anxious.

‘It's Auntie Margaret. She's been knocked down,' Amy said. ‘I've got to get over there and look after their evacuees while Uncle Harry is at the hospital.'

Barbara's response was immediate. ‘I'll come with you, Mum.'

‘Will you?' Amy felt a rush of gratitude followed by a swift stab of surprise. Barbara was displaying none of the panic she was feeling, just serious sympathy and a calm strength of purpose which only the young whose own lives have never been touched by tragedy can feel. For an instant, Amy felt that she wanted to lean on her, take advantage of that inviolable young strength and this too surprised her. Barbara was her daughter – she, Amy, had always been the one to do the protecting and provide the sure harbour for Barbara's life to ride at safe anchor. This must be a portent of what happened in old age when the strong became the weak, dependent suddenly on the very young they had protected. The sense of frailty it embodied lasted a moment only; Amy was herself still too young to depend on any strength but her own. But the thought of Barbara's support was even so a comforting one.

‘I may be late,' Amy said. ‘It depends on how long Uncle Harry has to stay at the hospital. In fact, I may have to stay all night. Thanks for the offer, Babs, but I think you had better stay here with Maureen. You can tell Ralph what has happened when he gets back. And you'll be able to get yourselves off to school in the morning.'

‘If you're sure …'

‘Yes, I'm sure,' Amy said. ‘I'll let you know what's happening as soon as there is any news.'

She fetched her coat and scarf and put them on. Her papers were still spread out across the table and she took a moment to stack them together and ram them back into their folder. There would be no more work done tonight. Taking her car keys and bag she went out into the dark November night.

Margaret lay in the ugly functional hospital bed surrounded by