The Hills and the Valley (62 page)

Well, those plans were in ruins now, blasted sky high with a load of dump ammo. And Huw was as shell-shocked as if he too had been caught in the blast. But he had been determined not to take compassionate leave no matter how hard they pressed it on him. Far better to be here, doing what he did best.

The trouble was there were not so many operations to fly now. With the Allies moving victoriously through France there were fewer pick-ups to be made for the occupied area was shrinking rapidly. At the end of July they had broken out of the Normandy beachhead, in mid-August they had landed in the south, and by the end of the month Paris was liberated. In other areas the Maquis, so long hunted, and revered, as the fighting wing of the Resistance, were at last scoring successes of their own, so that it was obvious that before long there would be virtually no area left under German control and in need of undercover air transport from England.

With the end of the war in sight Huw felt nothing but resentment that just when he needed to be as fully occupied as it was humanly possible to be, there was less and less call for him to fly the dangerous secret missions which had been his life since his own escape from France. In August, the Lysanders had been moved to a forward base in Devon as the previous station was now too close to the beachhead and the part of France that had already been liberated by the Allies and Huw immediately flew two missions, one a mail pick-up and one to bring in an evading pilot and an agent of the Resistance on his way to discuss tactics with the hierarchy of the SOE. It was this mission which had almost led to disaster. The pick-up had been touch and go for the retreating German army were rumbling noisily along the main road only a few hundred yards from the designated field and on the way back he was hit by flak. With a damaged tail-wheel and elevator he had limped home only to find the whole of south-west England blanketed in thick fog. With difficulty he managed to land but he was too close to the end of the air strip. As he fought to control his crippled Lysander he had struck the corner of a small hanger and a jagged piece of metal dislodged into the cockpit by the flak had gashed his forearm. At the time he had taken little notice of it, but when he had finally delivered his passengers he had felt the throbbing pain begin and looked down to see the sleeve of his tunic was soaked with blood. Several stitches had pulled the gash together but the MO was insistent. This time Huw must take some leave and give the wound a proper chance to heal before he flew again.

Huw had no choice but to agree. He telephoned Amy to tell her to expect him. She gave herself an afternoon off from the office, drove to Bath to meet his train and took him home to Valley View.

It was a pleasant summer day, not swelteringly hot but bright enough with the sun shining through a shimmery blue haze and turning the valley a hundred shades of green. The trees were heavy with full leaf, the gardens full of roses, snapdragons and granny bonnets, though the flower beds beneath the chestnut trees in the centre of town were bare as a gesture to wartime austerity. Huw watched the familiar vista unfolding and found himself remembering the first time he had seen Hillsbridge as a small boy of eight. He had hated it then, seeing only the dust-blackened lias stone buildings and the ugly railway lines bisecting the main street and comparing them with his beloved ‘Ponty'. Now, they were part of his growing up, scenario for more memories than Ponty would ever have – to see them was to know that he had come home. Yet there was no comfort in the familiarity. It merely added somehow to the yawning emptiness within him. There was nothing of Claire here, but there were other hurts, other losses, that he rarely thought of now but which were all the same, so deeply embedded they had almost become a part of his soul.

Maureen greeted him enthusiastically and he tried to respond but he knew he was being less than successful when he happened to catch Amy warning her off with a tiny quick shake of the head.

It's all right, he wanted to say, you don't have to treat me with kid gloves. But he merely retreated into silence.

After dinner Maureen left to pay a game of tennis with the Bray girls whose father owned the iron foundry – now working overtime – at Midlington.

‘Don't run about too much on top of a full stomach. It's not good for you!' Amy warned.

‘I'll be all right, Mum. Don't fuss!' Huw smiled in spite of himself – some things never changed. Then Maureen turned to him: ‘Are you sure you don't mind if I go out, Huw, on your first evening home?'

‘Of course not.' He slapped her bottom, neat beneath her tennis skirt. ‘Go on Maureen have a good time. You're only young once and it doesn't last long.'

He saw her smile falter, saw her exchange a quick glance with Amy, and thought again: oh God, they
are
going to treat me with kid gloves whether I like it or not.

When Maureen had gone, pedalling off along the lane on her bicycle, Amy touched Huw's arm. ‘Shall we go into the garden for a while? It's still warm.'

‘If you like.' He knew she wanted to talk. He could sense it and he was not exactly pleased at the prospect. Some things were best kept inside. It wasn't easy to control emotion with others probing your soft under belly and since nothing anyone could say could help he preferred to nurse his grief alone. But he could tell that Amy was determined and when Amy made up her mind to something it was a waste of time and effort to try to persuade her otherwise. He had learned that long ago.

The gardens of Valley View were as riotous as ever – more so perhaps since the old man who used to work there part-time had died the year before and both Amy and Ralph were too busy to do much about keeping them in order. The rose bushes still ran wild around the path, a lilac tree hung heavy branches across the jungle of shrubs and bushes and around the door the honeysuckle dripped pendulous heads to give off a sweet scent to the early evening air. Amy led the way past the fish pond where tiny orange and gold specks darted up for light between the meat-platter-sized water lily leaves and across the lawn, dotted with daisies, clover and even the occasional dandelion clock. Two deck chairs had been set in the far corner to catch the last of the dying sun; brightly striped they looked faintly incongruous as the deep golden light accentuated the garish orange and blue canvas.

Amy adjusted one to a sitting position and lowered herself gently into it. She did not totally trust the aged canvas not to rip beneath her weight. But Huw ignored the other chair, sitting instead on the grass.

‘I'm so glad you've come home, Huw,' Amy said. ‘I've been so worried about you.'

‘Oh, I'm all right.' He said it lightly but she knew him better than that.

‘You've had a terrible time.'

‘No worse than thousands of others.'

‘Oh Huw!' To her he was a little boy again, desperately hurt and trying to hide it. She reached out and put a hand on his arm. ‘Don't bottle it up, darling, please. I want to help. It does no good to bottle it up, truly it doesn't.'

‘And no good to talk about it either. Claire's dead. That's all there is to it.'

‘I do understand, Huw,' she said. ‘Believe me, I do. I lost my first husband, remember.'

‘It was different for you though.' He picked a clover, stripping the leaves methodically. ‘Claire and I never had a proper life together. Never had a home. Never really shared anything except what seemed like a “Boys Own Annual” adventure. It wasn't real. Not like it was for you and Llew.'

‘I suppose not. But it would have been, Huw. When all this is over. Now …'

‘No point in talking about it is there?' Huw said shortly, tossing away the denuded clover stalk. He did not add the doubt that in spite of all their hopes and plans it would never have been that way for him and Claire; the unspoken fear that in spite of everything he had simply not loved her enough. She was dead now, it was irreverent to her memory to think such a thing even for a moment.

They sat in silence, Amy feeling rejected, Huw reluctant to begin another line of conversation. Then he said casually:

‘How about you? How have you all been?'

‘Us?' Amy said, surprised. ‘Oh, we're all right.'

‘And Barbara?' Amy heard the note in his voice, the deliberate throwaway masking the deeper feeling, and knew suddenly that nothing had changed.

‘Oh yes, Barbara's fine too,' she said from force of habit, then stopped. Why lie to Huw? Once long ago she had written the truth to him in a letter only to rip it up when she heard of his marriage. Now there was no longer any reason to keep it from him. It might take his mind off his troubles, might even help Barbara, though how this was possible now she did not know.

He was looking at her directly now as if he knew there was something she was hiding.

‘She really is happy with that Marcus character?'

Amy drew a deep breath. ‘Actually no, Huw.'

He did not speak. He was sitting very still. Only the narrowing of his eyes betrayed any emotion.

‘No, she's not happy,' Amy went on. ‘I think there's something wrong with Marcus. Maybe because of what he went through in the war – that's what Barbara thinks. But I can't help wondering if it's some defect that has always been there.'

‘Defect? What sort of defect?'

‘I don't think he's quite normal. Whatever normal is.' Amy reached for her cigarettes and lit one. ‘Look, what I'm going to tell you, Huw, is between ourselves. Barbara told me it in confidence. I don't think she'd have told me at all if she hadn't been terribly upset at the time and we've hardly mentioned it since. Whenever I try to the subject with her she simply shrugs and says she is all right. But I don't think she is. I don't think anything has changed and frankly I'm worried about her.' She hesitated. ‘This isn't going to be easy. You'll have to bear with me and let me tell you in my own way.'

‘That's all right. Go on.'

She told him. Haltingly and with some embarrassment though she and Huw had always been close. She did not look at him as she spoke for she could not bear to see the darkening of his eyes. When she had finished they sat for a moment in silence, then Huw drove his fist down hard onto the grass.

‘The bastard!'

‘I know, Huw, I know.'

‘The bloody bastard! If I could get my hands on him I'd …'

She laid a restraining hand on his arm. The years had rolled away and she was being transported back in time, remembering how Ted, her brother, had said much the same about Rupert Thorne, the solicitor who had raped Ted's sweetheart Becky and indirectly killed her, and how it had ended with Rupert dead and Ted in Assize Court, accused of murder. Suddenly, she was terrified that history might repeat itself.

‘You mustn't do anything foolish, Huw. I'd never have told you if I thought you'd do that. Please promise me …'

‘If he was here now I wouldn't be responsible for what I'd do.'

‘I know. But it would just make things worse. Please Huw …'

He sat in silence and Amy quaked inwardly. Then he said: ‘When will I see her?'

‘She usually comes to visit at least once a week. But I'm sure when she knows that you're here …' Her voice tailed away.

‘Phone her,' Huw said. ‘Tell her to come over. If she doesn't come here than I shall go out to Hillsbridge House to see her whatever anyone says.' He paused. ‘And if that bastard is there when I do I'll break his bloody neck.'

Amy nodded. She was afraid, yet also strangely relieved. The problem was no longer hers alone. Huw knew and Huw cared, just as she did. It was what he might do about it that scared her. She didn't want him going out to Hillsbridge House and causing a scene. Better for Barbara to come here, where they could sort it out privately – if such a thing was possible. She stood up. The sun was going down over the lilac tree in a ball of flame.

‘All right, Huw,' she said. ‘I'll phone her.'

The following afternoon as soon as Hope had had her lunch Barbara washed the child's face, combed the cloud of soft gold hair and put her into a clean smocked dress. Then much to Hope's disgust she strapped her into her pushchair.

‘Don't want! Don't want!' Hope protested.

At two years old Hope was very like Barbara had been at her age – and Amy before her. She was sunshine and showers, a happy child who radiated warmth and fun. But when the mood took her she could be as wilful as she was charming, and as stubborn as she was pleasing. Today, the indignity of being strapped into her pushchair brought on one of those moods.

‘Hope
walk
!' she demanded, kicking her heels furiously against the foot rest. ‘Hope
walk
!'

‘I'm sorry but you can't,' Barbara said. ‘It's too far for you and we'd never get there at your pace.'

‘Hope
walk
!' All along the drive she continued drumming her heels furiously and beating the air with her arms. The commotion rasped on Barbara's already taut nerves and at last her temper snapped.

‘All right, Hope, that will do! If you don't behave yourself, I shall slap your legs.'

The tone, if not the words, communicated themselves to Hope. She opened her mouth to yell again, peeped over her shoulder at Barbara, and thought better of it.

‘Just look at you!' Barbara said. ‘You're all red in the face and messed up just when I wanted you to look nice. Goodness only knows what Uncle Huw will think of you.'

‘Uncle Huw,' Hope repeated.

‘Yes, Uncle Huw. He hasn't seen you since you were a baby.' Her voice was uneven. Just saying his name could do this to her. When Amy had telephoned to say Huw was here and wanted to see her the strange dark excitement had begun in her and the longing that he always generated. She had been able to think of nothing else all day. It seemed so long since she had seen him herself – a lifetime really. There was nothing between them now, of course. She was a married woman and he was a widower. But nothing would ever change the way she felt. Nothing could touch the dreams that were still there in her heart.