The Emerald Valley (38 page)

‘Thank you. And upstairs?'

She followed the woman back into the living-room and through a latched door. The stairs rose steep and bare, leading directly into the first of the bedrooms. Then one went through connecting doors into the second and third, all opening out one from the other and divided by only the flimsiest of partitions. Again they were so small that Amy knew most of her carefully acquired furniture would have to go. And there would be no privacy; the thinly screened walls would see to that.

She went to the window and looked out. From here the November day appeared even greyer. How could the view be more dismal than a bare depot yard? she wondered – but somehow it was. You did not expect a fine view from industrial premises, but when the only thing you could see from your bedroom window was the railway line and the cutting beyond, black with coal-dust and the soot from passing trains, it made the heart sink. She turned and almost fell over a china chamber pot, jutting out from beneath the bed.

‘Well?' The woman was standing in the doorway, arms folded around her sagging bosom. She was almost bald, Amy noticed with surprise, with scraggly hair combed across her flaking pink scalp. Was that what living at Batch Row did for you?

‘I shall have to think about it,' Amy said, her voice coming as before from some hollow deep inside her. ‘I have a house to sell.'

‘Yes, I know. You're Amy Roberts, aren't you? Amy Hall that was?'

Amy looked at her. ‘Yes.'

‘You don't know me, I don't expect, but you were at school with my George. Georgie Baker.'

‘Oh, yes.' Amy remembered Georgie Baker – a thin, weasel-faced boy with a runny nose, one of a brood of Bakers. She had always thought him quite repulsive and had given him the widest possible berth. Could she possibly be considering living in the house where he had lived? What had she come down to?

‘I'll let you know,' Amy said again. Claustrophobia was overcoming her – she had to get out of this place!

As the woman opened the door for her the cluster of children appeared again from nowhere, eyes rounded in pinched faces; when she began walking away they followed at a distance, one daring to call out a name that made her tighten in disgust.

Words like that from a child! How different from her own upbringing, with Mam getting worked up if they so much as dared to refer to their stomach as ‘belly'.

I can't live there, she thought. I can't possibly raise my children in a place like that – no, not even to have the money to sink into the business. Something else will come up – it's bound to! Even if it means renting a place. I know that's not the same as owning a home and I would have to find rent every week, but at least I would have the capital behind me. And anything would be better than that dreadful house … anything!

But right now it did not solve her problem of the lorry standing idle, the books that only just balanced and the winter coats that would be needed before many more weeks had passed.

As she crossed the railway line once more the rain started, thick and fine, blowing with the wind, the heavy sky making it ominously clear that there was plenty up there to come down.

Another worry – when there was prolonged rain the river flooded and in especially bad times it would come right up into the yard. After the dry summer the river was still pretty low, but it was something to bear in mind. Flash floods could be more devastating than those which rose slowly and gave you time to prepare.

I must make sure all my paperwork is packed away on a top shelf before I go home at night, Amy thought – and perhaps it would be a good idea to move the lorry to the highest part of the yard. Remember to tell Herbie …

No! she thought suddenly. Why leave it to Herbie? I'll move it myself.

As she approached the lorry she felt a flutter of nervousness. It was the first time she had attempted to drive since that dreadful day when she had hit Ralph Porter's motor car. But she thought she had learned quite a lot since then – how to start the lorry, for one thing – from watching Herbie and Ivor day after day. And she suddenly felt about a thousand years older.

But when she attempted to crank the starting handle she realised that knowing how to do it was not quite the same as actually accomplishing the feat. The handle was stiff and heavy and no matter how hard Amy swung it she was unable to turn over the engine.

Drat! she thought, getting a fresh wind and trying again. But it was useless; she couldn't get it going.

‘Having trouble, Mrs Roberts?'

The voice, right behind her, made her jump so that she let go of the handle, twisting round to see Ralph Porter standing there watching her with an amused expression on his darkly arrogant face.

‘Mr Porter!' she said, thinking: What in the world does he want? ‘I didn't hear you coming.'

Beneath the dark moustache one corner of his mouth twisted upwards.

‘I should have thought after your last attempt, you would have given up trying to drive lorries.'

She made no reply. The nerve of the man, bringing that up again!

‘What can I do for you?' she asked stiffly.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I came to talk business.'

‘Oh!' Her surprise showed in her face and he said a little sarcastically. ‘You are still in business, I take it?'

‘Yes, of course.' The rain was coming down more heavily now and she raised a hand to brush a strand of wet, honey-coloured hair off her face. ‘We'd better go inside.'

‘That seems a good idea.'

She led the way across the yard to the office, opening the door and wishing he did not disconcert her in this way. How could any man make her feel such a fool just by a lift of the eyebrow, a twist of the mouth? Or was it the size of him? Without saying a word he seemed to dominate the small office, standing there in his leather flying-jacket and boots, particles of rain shimmering in the dark hair and moustache.

A pulse jumped suddenly in her throat and she moved to put the desk between them. ‘What can I do for you then, Mr Porter?'

For a moment he didn't answer, though his eyes narrowed and he looked at her speculatively. Then he drew a silver cigarette case out of his pocket, flicking it open.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?'

‘No. Go ahead.'

He lit a cigarette, but did not offer her one. Typical, he's probably another of those who doesn't approve of women smoking, she thought. She unbuttoned her coat and sat down, then immediately wished she had not done so. It gave him such an advantage, towering over her.

‘There's a chair behind you, Mr Porter,' she said tersely.

‘Thanks.' He reached for it but instead of sitting, he turned it round and stood leaning his tall frame casually against the back. Determined not to be kept at this disadvantage she rose too, perching herself on the corner of the desk.

‘Perhaps you should tell me why you're here, Mr Porter. If you've come to tell me you want more money for the repair of your car, I'm afraid you've wasted your journey. I believe I have already settled that debt in full.'

He drew smoke; behind it his eyes looked amused.

‘It's not about the car. I told you, it's a matter of business.'

‘Oh – what sort of business?'

‘Your lorries are for hire, are they not?'

‘Yes, but …'

‘What are your terms?'

‘Terms?'

‘For the hire of your lorries. Really, Mrs Roberts, am I expressing myself that badly?'

Amy tried to shake herself out of the stupor of surprise. ‘You mean you wish to contract the use of one of my lorries?'

‘That's why I'm here, yes.'

‘For what purpose?'

‘I have a large amount of timber I want hauled. It's a sizable job, six weeks'work probably, and my own lorries are all fully occupied at the moment. The obvious answer is to sub-contract and as I have noticed one of your lorries lying idle …'

Illogically she felt her cheeks flame. He had noticed! Typical of him not to miss a thing like that. Of course his house was not far from the yard, but still …

‘It's idle because I don't have another driver at the moment.'

‘But you could get one?'

‘Yes, of course, I have people I can call on,' she lied.

‘Good. Then shall we say you could have a lorry at my timber yard on Monday morning at what … say, five?'

Amy swallowed; she could hardly believe this was happening. But say yes, a voice inside urged her. Don't worry about the hows, whys and wherefores at the moment. Just snap up this job like the manna from heaven that it is!

‘Of course, if that's what you want,' she said, attempting to sound businesslike.

For a few minutes they discussed business details, hire charges and schedules, and Amy was surprised when he accepted her quotation without argument. Knowing Ralph Porter and his methods, she would have expected him to take advantage of her position. He knew she was desperate for business and it would have been so easy for him to try to squeeze the margins to their limits. But he did not. Oh yes, there was a raised eyebrow here and a biting remark there, but none of the really hard bargaining Amy would have expected.

What's he up to? she wondered.

At last, when the details had been agreed upon, Ralph Porter levered himself away from the chair. This gave Amy the excuse to rise too, though the difference in their height meant he still had the advantage.

‘Well, if there's nothing more, Mr Porter …'

The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Not at the moment.'

‘ … I'm sure you'll find we can give you complete satisfaction.'

‘I certainly hope so.'

There was a faintly mocking note in his voice and as she looked up his eyes – also faintly mocking – met and held hers and the pulse jumped in her throat again. Awkward, she looked away, but there was no escaping the power of his presence. She left the sanctuary of her desk in order to cross to the office door and open it, conscious of his eyes following her. Why was he looking at her like that? Why didn't he just go? But she could not be rude – not after he had given her the business she needed so badly. And besides, it wasn't actually unpleasant. Disconcerting – but not unpleasant …

She drew a deep breath. ‘Thank you for trusting me with your business. I won't let you down.'

She held out her hand – it seemed the businesslike way to seal the agreement – but for what seemed an age he made no similar move. He looked almost amused by her gesture and she was about to withdraw her hand, feeling annoyed and confused, when he took it and his cool, strong fingers pressed hers for a moment.

‘I'm sure you won't. But there's just one thing worrying me.'

‘What's that?'

‘It won't be
you
, will it, driving the lorry?'

The momentary bridge between them shattered and Amy withdrew her hand as suddenly as if she was being burned by his touch, but before she could think of a suitable reply he went on so smoothly that she knew he was laughing at her: ‘It's all right, you don't have to answer that.'

‘Good. Because if we are to work together successfully, I should appreciate it if you would let the past lie,' Amy said tartly.

‘Very well, I shall do my best to respect your wishes.' But she still had the feeling that he was laughing at her and when he had gone, striding away across the wet yard to where his Morgan was parked in the lane outside, she could not believe the confused welter of her emotions.

How could he make her feel that way, she wondered – angry, awkward, yet also strangely aware of herself … and of him. He had come here and tossed a job into her lap almost casually – a job that might mean she could put off selling her house for a few weeks at least and still have some stability and growth for the business. She should be planning already how she was going to make it work. And yet, for the moment, she could think of nothing but the way he had looked at her.

She half-closed her eyes as she pictured it again; as she relived the confused moment when his eyes had met hers, something darted deep within her … sharp, piercing, sweet – a half-forgotten reaction to the nearness of a man. Fleetingly she was lifted, borne up on a wave of inexplicable excitement and unthinking breathless anticipation. Then, as suddenly, the wave broke, letting her come crashing down while the swirling yellow aftermath drove relentless ripples across the sandy expanse of her conscience and seeped guiltily into her heart.

The sound of a motor engine coming closer made her look up. It was Herbie, back from his day's gravel haulage. She went to the door of the office, watching him park the lorry. Thank heaven for Herbie, loyal, trusted and true. She could talk it all over with him – ask his advice about getting the extra men, decide which lorry should go to Ralph Porter and which continue with the gravel haulage – and know he would back her up.

Amy raised her chin and felt again a faint echo of the excitement and anticipation which had lifted her just now. Perhaps things were coming together after all. Perhaps there
was
a future out there somewhere, if she could struggle on for a while longer over the stony ground.

‘Can you come into the office for a minute, Herbie?' she called. ‘I want to talk to you.' And as he came towards her across the wet yard with his unhurried, loping gait, hope grew in her. A new contract … extra staff to be taken on … even the rain appeared to be easing off … there wouldn't be a flash flood today, at any rate. All it needed now was for the strike to be settled and then things could be set fair.

‘What is it, Mrs Roberts? What's wrong?' Herbie asked pessimistically and her lips curved upwards into something approaching her old, bright self.

‘Nothing, Herbie. For once it's good news,' she told him. ‘I think things are beginning to swing our way!'

But if things were looking brighter for Amy and the future of Roberts Haulage, for the mining families of Hillsbridge the outlook was still very black indeed.