The Emerald Valley (39 page)

The strike was close to being settled, it was true. Headlines in the
Hillsbridge Mercury
announced ‘The End Really is in Sight' and few townsfolk disbelieved it. Everywhere the drift back to work had begun – 357,000 men in all, if the
Mercury
had it right – and letters from colliery workers appealing for peace were appearing in the correspondence columns.

But at what a cost! By the middle of November the Miners' Delegate Conference had decided to give their executive power to resume negotiations with the Government.

‘That means they've already given in over the question of hours,' Walter Clements explained to the rest of his cronies in the now near-dry bar of the Miners'Arms, but really no explanation was needed. They knew only too well that things were not going their way, but they were too weary, too hungry and too heart-sore to fight any more. Strike pay was down to a meagre 3s a week and had been for three weeks now; not even food coupons distributed by the Miners'Relief Committee could do much to ease the distress now that winter was settling in.

Only stalwarts like Ewart Brixey remained solid for the strike, arguing with the wavering souls that, ‘We can't give in now! What's it all been for, lads? Go back now and they'll have us over a barrel – we'll be even worse off than we was before!'

But the militants were now lone voices crying in the wilderness. The majority wanted only to return to some semblance of normality before Christmas. And on the last Thursday in November, they got their way.

At meetings all over the coalfields the vote was near unanimous. Back to work. Never mind the conditions. Just let's get back to work!

In their droves they headed for the colliery office to sign on – many, many more than there were jobs to fill after the long, damaging stoppage. And for the moment they could feel nothing but relief.

The strike was over. Soon the wheels would be turning again, bringing the rich black mineral up from the bowels of the earth.

The strike was over. There would be food on the tables and boots on cold, blistered feet. And soon it would be Christmas.

For a little while, at least, it was all the people of Hillsbridge knew or cared about.

During the month before Christmas Amy worked as she had never worked before. In the early days after Llew's death she had struggled on out of desperation, fighting wearily for survival. Now, with both lorries working again, four men on the payroll and a number of occasional jobs coming in besides the now-regular assignments of the quarry company and Ralph Porter's timber firm, Amy found she was throwing herself into each new day with fervour. There were still problems to be faced and plenty of them, but somehow the emphasis was shifted from holding a defensive position to one of attack, and the energy and enthusiasm ran through her veins with her blood, so that the early mornings and late nights no longer took their toll on her. She woke now not heavy from restless, worry-laden sleep, but tingling with the urgency of all there was to do; she marshalled the children with good-humoured efficiency; she took work home from the yard, poring over it when the household tasks were done, and she fell into bed tired but satisfied instead of weak and exhausted.

On the home front things were running a good deal more smoothly than she had dared hope – or perhaps it was just that she had no time to notice otherwise.

Huw had started school and though in the first few weeks he came home more than once with a bloodied nose, a black eye or a tear in the seat of his pants, Amy was relieved that he had settled in without any further attempts to run away. He still had a mutinous look about him, he still resisted any overtures of warmth, yet somehow she felt that she had made progress with him, despite the small amount of time she was able to spend with him.

Or, perhaps, because of it. A boy like Huw could not be rushed, she decided – fuss over him and he would feel stifled. As for the girls, they idolised Huw, trotting round behind him whatever he was doing until Amy had to tell them to leave him alone. Sometimes he came to the yard with her, playing a kind of hide-and-seek in the timber stacks and poking about with anything mechanical while she worked. Herbie treated him with the deepest suspicion, as likely as not to yell at him to ‘Get out of it!' But Ivor Burge took a liking to Huw, finding jobs for him and even allowing him to ride in the lorry cab when there was room.

As a driver, Ivor had come on in leaps and bounds. He was young, strong and keen, with all Herbie's loyalty yet without the irritating knack Herbie had of making Amy feel he was indulging her, holding on to the strings while she played at transport management.

I'm being unfair, she told herself. Herbie is one in a million.

But the fact remained that she felt more comfortable telling Ivor what to do. And she had encountered a little resistance from Herbie when she announced the work schedules: Herbie to continue with the gravel haulage along with his new mate, Arty Dando, with Ivor carrying the timber for Ralph Porter.

‘Leave Ivor doing something he knows about,' Herbie advised and Amy felt ridiculously guilty when she over-ruled him.

‘No, I'd like him to take on the timber,' she said, mollifying Herbie slightly by adding, ‘It's very heavy work, Herbie, and I can't afford to risk you doing something to your back. I couldn't manage without you.'

So Ivor took on the timber … and a very good job he was making of it.

‘He's a good worker, that lad of yours,' Ralph Porter said the first time he came to the yard to pay Amy for the hire of the lorry, and she glowed with pleasure. Ivor was ‘homegrown'and it was almost as good to hear Ralph Porter praising him as it would have been to be complimented on one of the children.

Aloud, however, she merely said, ‘I'm glad you're satisfied.'

‘Very.' He was leaning his tall frame against the desk, looking at her with eyes narrowed in his dark face, ‘I think we might be able to do quite a bit of business together. In fact, I was going to suggest that perhaps we could have dinner together one night in order to discuss it.'

Amy's flush of pleasure deepened to the scarlet of confusion.

‘Oh – I don't really think that's necessary, is it?' she blurted, then wished she could have bitten off her tongue as he raised an eyebrow to give his face the familiar mocking expression.

‘Perhaps not, but I always think it's very civilised to do business over a pleasant meal.'

‘Yes, maybe,' she faltered. ‘It's just that I have very little time for that kind of thing.'

His mouth quirked. ‘Maybe you should make time? Think about it, anyway, and I shall ask you again. You wouldn't be committing yourself to anything. A lot of business might be conducted this way, but it's still quite within your power to say no to anything that doesn't appeal to you.'

‘Yes – of course …'

‘I'll see you in two weeks'time.' He left the office then and from the window she watched him cross the yard and climb into his distinctive motor car. Her pulses were beating a little too fast and her cheeks still burned with the confusion he seemed to start in her so easily.

Fool! she thought. What must he think of you? He probably meant nothing at all by asking you to have dinner with him – it's the kind of thing business people do. But could you take it like that? No – you had to jump to the wrong conclusion and make a fool of yourself.

But that was the way he affected her. He was so damned sure of himself it was disconcerting. So purposeful it made her weak by comparison, his dynamism and strength overshadowing any resolution she might make to be as cool and businesslike as he was. How did he manage it? He was a man of few words, he wasn't even flamboyant, but certainly there was no ignoring him.

It's probably his conceit, she decided. He expects everyone to kow-tow to him and so they do. But I have no intention of kow-towing to him – or to anyone.

By the time Ivor returned with the lorry, she had recovered herself sufficiently to check out the books and make up the wage-packets, although she still cringed inwardly every time she thought of the interview and the stupidity of her reaction to Ralph Porter's suggestion.

‘Mr Porter is very pleased with you, Ivor,' she said, determined to mention his name normally. ‘He says you're a good worker.'

Ivor's thin face lit up. ‘I do my best, Mrs Roberts,' he mumbled.

She questioned him about the day's work and paid him his wages. Then, as he was about to leave, he turned back in the doorway.

‘Oh, by the way, there was a bloke who works at Mr Porter's yard asking about you.'

‘Asking about me?'

‘One of the labourers. His name's Griffin – Ollie Griffin.'

‘Griffin.' Amy racked her brains. ‘One of the Griffins from Purldown?'

Ivor shrugged. ‘I don't know. Reckon he must be.'

‘What was he asking?'

‘Oh, all sorts really. How you were getting on – how the business was going – all that kind of thing.'

‘I hope you told him it's thriving,' Amy remarked sharply. She was very aware that half Hillsbridge was waiting for her to fail.

‘Yes, I did, and he seemed very interested,' Ivor replied. ‘The way he was talking, I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't come to you for a job.'

‘Oh, I shouldn't think so,' Amy said, but she couldn't help being pleased all the same. She had nothing to offer a prospective employee, but it was pleasant to think that someone might actually want to work for her – particularly a man who at present worked for Ralph Porter.

Perhaps I'm not the only person he causes to feel inadequate, she thought triumphantly. Perhaps his men feel the same way too.

As she continued with her work she forgot about Ollie Griffin. The next morning, however, a Saturday, she was somewhat surprised to see a young man wandering about outside the office and peering in through the windows when she called at the yard with the girls on the way to market. Thick-set, with slicked-back hair and dressed in a jacket and overalls, he was an unfamiliar figure to her, but as she crossed the yard to ask him what he thought he was doing he turned, noticed her and came towards her, beaming.

‘Ah! Just the person I wanted to see!'

‘Me?' Amy asked in surprise.

‘That's right, you, love.' The familiarity in his attitude annoyed her slightly, but she could see he meant no harm.

The wind was whistling coldly around the yard, cutting through her coat and stinging her cheeks, and she got out her key and unlocked the office door.

‘You'd better come in.'

He followed her, blowing on his hands.

‘This is a cold one! Going to be a white Christmas, is it?'

She didn't answer but turned to face him. ‘You wanted to see me, you said.'

‘That's right; I'm Mr Griffin, Ollie Griffin. I was talking to one of your lads yesterday – Ivor, I think his name is. He said you might have a job for me, so I thought – strike while the iron's hot!'

Amy felt another stab of annoyance. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Griffin, but I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey. I'm fully staffed at present.'

‘Oh.' He looked put out but not deflated. ‘Well, if you ever do want to take on anybody, bear me in mind, will you? I'm a good all-rounder, if I do say so myself. There's not much I can't turn my hand to – driving, labouring – and I know a fair bit about engines, too, if it comes to that.'

Amy looked at him closely. ‘You work for Ralph Porter, don't you?'

‘Worse luck.' Ollie Griffin drew a grubby handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose noisily. ‘He's a bugger to work for, though, and if I can fit myself up elsewhere I shall be glad.'

‘You're not happy there, then?' Amy asked, unable to resist the opportunity for a little insight into Ralph Porter, employer.

Ollie stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket.

‘You said it! He'll keep a man down, given half a chance. When I went there I was supposed to be a driver. Promised me the earth, he did – reckoned he'd make me a foreman before the year was out. But it was just a lot of empty promises. Of course, he's a bully and like all bullies he doesn't like it if you stand up for yourself. He got his knife into me and put me back on labouring. No, I should be glad to see the back of that place, I can tell you.'

‘I see,' Amy said. ‘Well, as I say, Mr Griffin, I have nothing to offer you at the moment. But if the occasion should arise …'

‘Right. Thanks, love. I won't detain you any longer.'

After he had gone Amy felt ridiculously pleased with herself. It did wonders for the morale to have men actually coming to you for work – especially preferring you to someone like Ralph Porter as an employer. But of course at present it was hypothetical only. Two drivers and two mates for the two lorries was all she could possibly take on at the moment. Though if business continued to thrive, who knew … ?

‘Mammy, I thought we were going to shop! Can't we go?' Barbara agitated and Amy got together the papers she had come to collect.

‘Right, girls, we're on our way,' she said, stuffing them into her bag in rather unbusinesslike fashion. ‘Market – here we come! And if you both behave yourselves, you shall have a quarter of mint shrimps to suck!'

Saturday morning was and always had been Amy's regular time for shopping. The market, of course, was open all day, becoming busier and more social as the hours passed. By the time the lamps were finally extinguished at past 9 o'clock, the atmosphere was almost like an extension of the fun-fair that wintered in the adjoining yard, with the Salvation Army Band grouped in a circle playing rousing hymn tunes while people shopped for last-minute bargains. At this time of day, too, there was always plenty to see although, Amy thought with regret, a good deal less than when she was a child. Then there had been ‘Smasher the Chinaware Man', throwing samples of his wares into the air and letting them crash to the ground to attract a crowd; Dr Quilley, the Indian quack, selling pills, potions and cure-alls in a jar; and Dr Rainbow, his partner, pulling teeth on an open wagon in full view of the interested onlookers. Those colourful characters had disappeared now. But there were still stalls of every description from cockles to cottons, cheap watches to cheese, and the cries of the vendors vied with the loud modern music continually played by the holder of the stall that sold the most up-to-date wind-up gramophones.