The Emerald Valley

Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

About Bello:
www.panmacmillan.com/bello

Sign up to our newsletter to hear about new releases events and competitions:
www.panmacmillan.com/bellonews

• Janet Tanner
  
• Dedication
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-One
  

Janet Tanner is a prolific and well-loved author and has twice been shortlisted for RNA awards. Many of her novels are multi-generational sagas, and some – in particular the Hillsbridge Quartet – are based on her own working class background in a Somerset mining community. More recently, she has been writing historical and well-received Gothic novels for Severn House – a reviewer for
Booklist
, a trade publication in the United States, calls her “a master of the Gothic genre”.

Besides publication in the UK and US, Janet's books have also been translated into dozens of languages and published all over the world. Before turning to novels she was a prolific writer of short stories and serials, with hundreds of stories appearing in various magazines and publications worldwide.

Janet Tanner lives in Radstock, Somerset.

To my mother

The Ford motor lorry stood in the centre of the depot yard, square, squat and spanking brand-new. Its cab was painted green – a darker green than the grassy hillside that provided a backdrop to the yard on its south side – and the strong spring sunlight drove a straight shaft in through the windscreen and out through the small oval of glass at the rear of the driver's cab. It caught the yellow legend on the door also, making it stand out with a sharpness that was almost hurtful to the eye:

‘L. ROBERTS. HAULAGE CONTRACTOR.
HILLSBRIDGE.'

A few yards away a young woman stood looking thoughtfully at the lorry, one hand resting lightly against her narrow pleated skirt, the other playing restlessly with her honey-coloured curls, square-cut to a bouncing ‘bingle' – the style that bridged the gap between the flattering bob and the fashionable but more severe shingle. Cornflower-blue eye were narrowed behind long fair lashes and there was a determined set to the delicate, heart-shaped chin and the clearly defined mouth.

Amy Roberts knew what she wanted all right – just as she had always known. And what was more she was determined to get it – just as she usually did. The only thing that surprised her was that on this occasion getting her way had taken so long, and the person who had stood stubbornly in her way was the one she could usually get round the most easily – her husband, Llew. Generally, Llew would refuse her nothing. When those lips and eyes smiled together and the dimples played in her cheeks he was ready to weaken; when she put her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his – rounded and feminine beneath the boyish line of the clothes – he was lost.

But on this particular issue Llew Roberts had not weakened; this one thing he had continued to refuse. For after all, what man in his right mind would allow his wife to drive a lorry?

‘Don't be so silly, Amy – of course you can't! You wouldn't be strong enough, for one thing.'

‘I'm sure I would be,' she had argued. ‘I cut my muscles helping my mother put the Monday washing through the mangle when I was still at school. And I still do it – every week – shirts and sheets
you've
made dirty, Llew Roberts.'

He had ignored the jibe. He disliked seeing his wife mangling washing – and the sooner he could afford to pay someone to do it for her, the better. But he did not want to see her driving a lorry either – the whole idea was preposterous.

‘I'm sorry, Amy, I haven't got time to teach you.'

‘It wouldn't take any time at all!' she had insisted. ‘You've told me plenty of times about when you went up to Birmingham to collect your first lorry. You said you'd never even driven a car and they showed you where the gears were, three forward and one back, told you which way to turn the wheel to go left and right and left you to it. You drove all the way back to Hillsbridge on your own – eighty-odd miles. So how you can say
I
couldn't do it, I don't know!'

‘But that was in 1922, Amy. This is 1926 and there's a lot more traffic on the roads now than there was then. Besides, I'm a man …'

‘Hmm!' she had snorted. ‘What difference does that make, I should like to know? I'm as clever as most of the men I know – and cleverer than quite a lot of them. I could have got a scholarship and stayed on at school if I'd wanted, like you did, only I didn't want to. But when I see some of the fatheads I was at school with driving and you say they can do it just because they're men – well, it's quite ridiculous.'

But Llew had refused to be moved, by threat or entreaty, by bribery or blackmail.

‘No, Amy, you're not driving my lorry,' was all he would say, and so far Amy had had no chance to disobey. She had watched, waited and plotted for a chance to get her way, all without success – until today, when Llew had gone off on a long trip that would keep him away until late. And Amy had come to the depot yard with one purpose in mind – to drive the lorry as she had wanted to do for so long.

It had been a shock to discover that Llew had taken his old lorry for the trip – the lorry that he had described in his story of ‘three gears forward and one back, turn the wheel this way for left, this way for right.' She had heard it so often she felt sure she could have emulated Llew's success almost without trying. But for some reason it was the new lorry, collected only a fortnight ago, that now stood in the depot yard, gleaming and winking in the spring sunshine. For a moment Amy had hesitated. The new lorry was Llew's pride and joy. But she had had to wait so long for this chance to try to drive … and what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

As she stood looking at the lorry a lanky man in overalls crossed the yard towards her – Herbie Button, Llew's right-hand-man. Herbie's brother, Cliff, ran a taxi service in Hillsbridge and sometimes when he was fully booked for weddings and funerals Herbie helped him out. But there wasn't enough work to keep the two brothers fully occupied and two years ago Herbie had thrown in his lot with Llew Roberts.

‘Afternoon, Mrs Roberts,' he greeted her, and even now, after two years, the name stuck like black treacle in his mouth. He had known her when she was a little girl, pretty, mischievous Amy Hall, and ‘Mrs Roberts'did not come quite naturally. But it was what Llew insisted on, and Llew was the boss.

She tilted her head to look at him and he knew at once from her expression that she was up to something.

‘Hello, Herbie.'

Oh yes, her ‘butter wouldn't melt' expression was hiding something, he was sure of it. But he warmed towards her all the same. That was one thing about Amy Hall – Mrs Roberts. You could know she was after something, cooking up some scheme, using that charm of hers to get her own way, but it made no difference. You still couldn't help but like her.

‘Didn't expect to see you today, Mrs Roberts,' he said conversationally. ‘Little'uns all right, are they?'

‘Yes. Fine.' She dismissed the ‘little'uns' – her children – with a quick, impatient smile. Barbara, at three, was a charmer, with her mother's golden curls and blue eyes, and Maureen, though not quite a year, was already displaying a personality of her own. But they took up so much of her time that sometimes Amy almost resented them – though she always had the grace to feel guilty about it later. They were healthy and beautiful and she loved them – it was just that there were now so many other things she wanted to do besides feeding and looking after them, washing and ironing and tidying up the muddles they made. Thank heavens there was no need to have a string of children any more, as women had had to in her mother's day, was all she could say …

Herbie Button pushed his cap to the back of his head with a grimy hand.

‘Well, we're not expecting Mr Roberts back until late. He and Ivor Burge have gone off down to …'

‘I know,' she cut in. ‘And I want to be able to give him a surprise when he gets back, Herbie.'

The grimy fingers scratched in the hair that had previously been covered by his cap.

‘Surprise? What sort of surprise, Mrs Roberts?'

Her lower lip tightened; small tucks appeared in her cheeks instead of dimples.

‘I want to be able to drive the lorry.'

‘What?' If she had said she wanted to take off for the moon he couldn't have been more surprised. There she stood, a slip of a girl in a pleated dress up to her knees and a pair of those shoes with the silly little heels that got thin in the middle and a gold gypsy bracelet just above her left elbow biting into the plump flesh without a hint of muscle in it, and told him she wanted to drive the lorry. ‘Oh, you're joking, of course, Mrs Roberts,' he added in relief.

‘No, I'm not joking.' Her chin came up and the expression in her eyes made the shock hit him all over again. She wasn't joking. He could see that now.

‘Please, Herbie, don't tell me I can't,' she said, a slightly threatening note creeping into her voice. ‘I've heard that quite often enough. I just want you to show me how. And there's no need to look so worried, either. I'll make sure Llew doesn‘t take it out on you; I shall tell him I made you.'