The Emerald Valley (25 page)

In the front room of George Young's house in Tower View, Harry Hall and Margaret Young sat on their heels on the floor in the midst of piles of clothes sufficient in Harry's opinion to fill the stalls for an entire jumble sale. The furniture – the fat, serviceable sofa and two matching easy-chairs – had been pushed back to accommodate them and more sacks, waiting to be emptied, leaned against the walls, the writing bureau and the small occasional table.

With the miners'strike now in its twelfth week, hardship was rife in Hillsbridge and the committee of the Distress Fund had put out a plea for clothing for the needy. It had been answered enthusiastically, with the better-off inhabitants donating good, unwanted cast-offs to swell the sackloads donated by ‘the gentry', people from the big houses outside the district where the daughters of mining families were in service. Since George Young was the secretary of the local Labour Party and Gussie, his wife, was one of the leading lights on the committee of the Distress Fund, most of it was delivered direct to their home and parties of willing helpers sorted it for distribution to hard-pressed families.

Today Harry and Margaret were taking their turn in this hub of activity and though Harry would have been the first to admit his qualifications for the job were less than adequate, he was doing his best – instructed by an enthusiastic Margaret, who generously pointed out his mistakes in between working tirelessly herself.

‘I should throw that away, Harry. Who on earth would be seen dead in that?' And: ‘Harry – that blue piqué is a hat-and-coat set for a baby boy, not a girl. See – look at the way it buttons. So it goes on this pile here.'

Obediently Harry compiled with her instructions. Sorting good used clothes was not one of his favourite jobs. There were things he would rather do than check on whether a pram coat buttoned to the right or the left, and he could not see that it made much difference anyway. A pram coat was a pram coat and that was all there was to it.

But boring as sorting old clothes might be, at least it was working for the cause. Everyone had to start somewhere, Harry supposed, and if his starting point was a bit like preparing for a glorified jumble sale, well, he would just have to accept it and be grateful that he had the opportunity actually to be here, in George Young's house, with George Young's blessing.

Since the day of the Labour Fete, it seemed to Harry that his life had changed completely. Whereas before he had been aware first of a restlessness he could not understand, and then of a desire to do something for the miners'cause without having a single idea on how to begin, now suddenly he found himself in the thick of things – and it was all because of Margaret.

She was, Harry thought, different from any girl he had ever known. Not that he had known many this well – there had been girls in his class at school, of course, but mostly they had stayed together in giggling groups. And certainly she was nothing like either Dolly or Amy. Just why she was so different he was not sure – unless perhaps it was that she saw things on a much larger canvas while they judged the world solely on how it would affect them. Never in a million years, he thought, could he imagine either of them working in a kind of soup kitchen, doling out plates of food to the neediest members of the community. Dolly would do anything for her own family but tended to believe, like Charlotte, that charity began and ended at home, and Amy he didn't think would be seen dead in public in a pinafore no matter what the circumstances.

Margaret, however, took charity work of all kinds very seriously.

‘It's only right to do what we can,' she said, but the sentiments deeply drilled into her since childhood somehow did not make her appear pious as they might have done. Perhaps this was because she genuinely wanted to help, not just to look good in the eyes of the community, Harry thought. And because, of course, she had the best sense of humour of anyone he knew – his brother Ted excepted.

Harry had discovered how real was her sense of humour on that first picnic they had taken together. Typically, Margaret had packed a basket not only with sandwiches, fruit cake and a jug of home-made lemonade, but also a bright checked tablecloth, plates, cups, knives and forks.

Harry had carried this without complaining down the hill, through the town, past the church and along the valley bottom where the river ran cool and clear beneath the overhanging trees. They had stopped for a while by the spot where the naturally-broadening river had been turned into a swimming pool and where galas and water polo matches took place, and Harry had wanted to roll up his trousers and dabble his feet – but Margaret would not let him.

‘My Dad says the pool will have to be closed down,' she informed him. ‘He thinks it's being polluted.'

‘Pollu-what?' Harry asked, one trouser leg already rolled up to the knee.

‘Polluted. It means that not very nice things are going into it.'

‘You mean the cows walking in the river upstream? They've always been there,' Harry said reasonably.

‘No, I don't mean the cows, though I don't fancy them either,' she said seriously. ‘My Dad says that there's sewage coming down under the Tump from the houses up at Eastover. And even worse … you know what's on the other side?'

He looked, but was able to see nothing but green fields and the tower of the church. ‘Nope.'

‘The churchyard,' she said. ‘Dad says all kinds of nasty things could be draining into the water – out of the graves.'

‘Oh, crikey!' Harry, who had just begun to dabble one toe, withdrew it hastily. ‘You mean … ?'

‘Yes, I do. Not very nice, is it? You could get an infection if you had a cut, my Dad says.'

Harry, trying not to look too anxious, examined his foot for signs of a cut or graze but found none. Perhaps being on strike had its advantages! Usually he was covered in scrapes and grazes.

‘That is horrible,' he said again, wondering if being in local politics was like this all the time – carrying the cares of the world and knowing things it was more pleasant not to know.

They strolled on for a bit until they found a shady spot, dappled with sunlight. Because Margaret had brought up her father's name, Harry felt himself justified in asking a few pertinent questions; he found her so knowledgeable in the workings of local politics that he began to wonder how he had remained ignorant for so long. The smallest details of organisation were new to him, the subject was endless and fascinating – he could have gone on about it for ever. But after a while Margaret protested.

‘Do we have to talk about the Labour Party all the time? I get enough of it at home.'

Harry coloured. The last thing he wanted was to bore her, but he couldn't think of another single topic of conversation and to his own annoyance, fell silent.

‘Shall we eat, then?' she suggested.

He helped her lay out the tablecloth and set the places. The sandwiches were neat triangles, totally unlike the doorstep wedges that Charlotte called sandwiches, the cake was cut into even-sized squares. From the bottom of the hamper she produced a little cruet set and small matching jars for milk and sugar – a slight mystery, since there was only lemonade to drink. But Harry was fascinated by the gentle orderliness of the whole exercise.

‘This is the life!' he said.

‘You like it?' There was an eagerness in her face that twisted something deep within him. Suddenly he wanted touch her and the desire was stronger than embarrassment. He reached out so that his fingers brushed hers and the warmth sent tremors through his veins.

For a moment he held his breath, half expecting her to pull away, but she sat motionless as if she too was holding her breath, and gaining courage he locked his fingers around hers, then slid them slowly up her wrist and forearm. Her skin felt soft and warm to his touch and the desire twisted within him again, sharper and more urgent. Slowly, slowly he moved towards her and she did not draw away … closer closer, until her face blurred out of focus and he thought he could feel her breath on his cheek. As their lips touched the world seemed to stand still – it was as if even his heart had stopped beating and time was suspended by the sweetness of her mouth. There was no contact between their bodies yet she drew him, every pore, every nerve ending, to an awareness centred in the gentle pressure of their lips and the delicate perfume of her skin. For timeless moments it lasted, precious, lingering, never-to-be-forgotten moments.

And then the idyll was shattered by a crashing in the bushes behind them and they sprang apart to see first one, then two or three, then a whole herd of heifers lumbering towards them.

Margaret screamed and leapt to her feet, the bottle of lemonade went over, swimming into the neat triangle sandwiches. Harry, too, had jumped violently; now, he waved his arms wildly at the cows.

‘Get out of it!'

They stopped, regarding him with patient, curious eyes. Then the first, clearly the leader, moved slowly on, lumbering uncertainly towards the river and passing so close that the black coat brushed his bare arm. As before, the others followed. One hoof trod on a corner of the outspread tablecloth, leaving a muddy footprint, then one after the other they pushed, jostled and splashed their way into the river shallows.

Harry swore, then turned to Margaret. She was standing, hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide above them.

‘Are you all right?' he asked.

‘Yes, I …'

And then she began to laugh. It bubbled out of her, peal after peal of mirth. ‘Oh Harry, I'm sorry, but it's just too funny! Those stupid cows …'

She dropped to her knees, righting the lemonade bottle and rescuing sandwiches, still laughing. ‘They startled me so! I'm not
really
frightened of them. I'm not keen, mind you, but they're only heifers, aren't they? They're just curious …'

‘Well, they managed to ruin our picnic,' Harry said.

‘Oh, go on, they didn't! Though I think perhaps I
would
rather move from here. I don't much fancy being in the way when they all plough back again. And they leave smelly pats, too,' she added, wrinkling her nose.

So much for our first kiss, thought Harry as he helped her pack the basket again and move back to a piece of open field. But the warm feeling he had for her grew and her laughter was like music in his ears.

That evening when he took her home, Harry had no doubts about asking to see her again and on the second evening she asked him in for a cup of tea. Then Harry had been introduced to her father and to her sweet-faced, soft-voiced mother, an older replica of Margaret; when the conversation had turned inevitably to the strike, Harry had been impressed by their obvious sincerity.

George Young might have left the pits to work for the Cooperative Society, collecting orders, but his heart was clearly still very much with his former colleagues.

‘It's a sad business,' he said now, solemnly swirling the tea in the cup held between two huge hands, ‘that men should be treated no better than slaves … and the hardship doesn't bear thinking about. We do what we can, of course, helping out wherever we can and raising money for the Relief Fund. But it's little enough.'

‘Dad contributes something to the fund every week out of his wages, don't you, Dad?' Margaret said proudly.

‘Margaret!' George treated her to a reproving stare over the rim of his cup. ‘You know I told you we don't talk about that.'

‘But you do!' she protested. ‘Ten shillings a week.'

George ignored her, but Gussie made small shushing movements at her.

‘The trouble is that the employers seem determined to grind the men into the ground,' George went on, ‘and the government seem more than happy to stand by and let them do it. To ask a man to work longer hours for less pay, when he's already on the breadline – it's madness. They've no alternative but to strike. But it's going to be a hard struggle, make no mistake about that. And it's up to those of us who are able to shoulder some of the burden to raise funds, organise trips for the children, anything to make the load lighter.'

‘If there's anything I can do …' Harry said, eager to impress as well as truly anxious to be involved.

George beamed approvingly.

‘That's the spirit, my boy. There will be something, you may be sure of it,' he said and Harry glowed with pride.

George's approval had sustained Harry through the various tasks he had been set. With Margaret's mother Gussie heading the Relief Committee, the house in Tower View was the centre of operations and Harry found himself press-ganged into the most menial of tasks – peeling potatoes for the emergency canteen that operated twice a week in the Victoria Hall; picking dry sticks in the wood to deliver to the old folk who, with only a retired miner's allowance to rely on, had quickly run out; sweeping up, and even helping to wash the floor, following one fund-raising event after another. The jobs were ones he would never have done at home in a month of Sundays – things which, apart from picking up sticks, Charlotte would never have dreamed of asking him to do – but when Gussie or George asked he did it with pleasure.

For one thing Margaret was there, and any excuse to see Margaret was a good one.

For another, Harry felt that he was working his ticket towards becoming a member of the Labour Party.

He had not dared raise the subject with George yet, though it hovered on his lips whenever politics was discussed. But Harry told himself he must be patient. First let him show George Young he had a serious interest in helping others. Then, when the opportunity arose, he would be able to put himself forward and know he had earned the right to be taken seriously.

There were times, though, when the fervour of wanting to help palled a little – and sorting through piles of good used clothes on a summer afternoon was one of them.

A little impatiently, Harry thrust his hand into the sack and drew out a concoction of white webbing, bones and elastic.