The Emerald Valley (62 page)

‘I did. Perhaps I shall still do that. But nobody will take any notice of me unless I make something of myself first. And this is the way to do it.'

‘But you must have some fun; you can't work all the time,' Margaret argued. ‘I never see you these days, Harry.'

‘Come with me when I go out to practise surveying, then,' he suggested.

To begin with she had done as he said, trotting along behind him carrying coloured pencils, paper and all the paraphernalia he was acquiring. But it was depressing to be alone with him in lovely deserted meadows where the summer-sweet hedges made shady secret places, when he took far more interest in his calculations than he did of her; frustrating to see his enthusiasm reserved for the unexpected evidence provided by a knoll or ridge, instead of the touch of her hand; hurtful to know he was exulting in a correct assumption rather than a stolen kiss. She could not converse with him, for she knew nothing of the language of surveying, and these days he seemed uninterested in the anecdotes and the bright, happy chatter which had once delighted him, so she relapsed into silence while the feeling of rejection rose to suffocate her.

I don't think he wants me for myself at all, she thought. I doubt if he ever did. When his interest was in politics, he picked up with me because it was a way of getting in with my father. Now his ambitions have changed, he doesn't want me any more.

It was not in Margaret's nature to be morose or self-pitying, but as the joy went out of her relationship with Harry she found herself sinking deeper and deeper into depression.

I love him, she thought, desperate with all the passion of first love. I know he's my first boy-friend, but I don't want anybody else, ever. And if he really doesn't want me, I shall be an old maid. The tragedy of it brought tears to her eyes and sometimes – after another evening when she had failed to communicate with him and he had left her with no more than a quick, perfunctory kiss – she cried herself to sleep.

Sometimes Margaret tried a new line foreign to her nature, endeavouring to persuade him into some outing or other, and sometimes she succeeded. When she did, they seemed to return to that early easy communication they had shared and her soaring heart would whisper that anything was possible. But more often than not her suggestions were met with an excuse and for this reason, if for no other, she was delighted when he had agreed to take her to see
The Jazz Singer.

‘I must admit, I'd like to see it myself,' he said and Margaret, hopes soaring, had thought: Perhaps this could be the turning point. If he really enjoys it, it might make him realise there is more to life than studying and surveying.

That afternoon she raced through her allotted homework as soon as she got home from school, grateful there were no lengthy essays to write or vocabularies of Latin or French words to learn. Then she went up to her room to get ready.

I wish I could have a bath, thought Margaret as she pulled off her print dress which was slightly damp beneath the arms from hurrying home, it would be lovely to have a scented bath like a lady in a novelette, with soft swirls of foam to tickle my chin and talc to match the soap and leave a perfume on my skin that would drive Harry wild with love for me.

But a bath, scented or otherwise, was out of the question. The house did have a bathroom – Gussie had had the small spare bedroom ‘done over' – but there was no supply of hot running water. Instead there was a massive copper, heated by a popping, spluttering gas jet; the water had to be ladled out into the bath with a metal dipper, while simultaneously filling large saucepans to help with the transfer at the tap at the base of the boiler.

The whole thing constituted what Gussie called ‘a performance' and meant that baths were restricted to once a week – ‘Friday Bath Night'had been the order of the day when Margaret was a child, though now she was older it had become a movable occasion.

But whatever else, baths were not something to be embarked upon lightly as a quick freshener before going out, so Margaret did what she always did – took hot water in a jug and poured it into the shallow porcelain basin with its decorative trim of pink roses that stood on the wash-stand in her room.

Her toilet completed, she took her newest dress from the wardrobe and held it up to admire it. The dress was white, with an extravagantly pleated skirt and a big sailor collar trimmed with navy blue braid and a small capstan motif. Dare I wear it? she wondered. The seats in the picture palace were never as clean as they might be and white would show every mark. But oh, she did so want to look nice for Harry …

Recklessly she put on the dress and then turned her attention to her face. A touch of lipstick was the most she usually wore by way of make-up, but today she had confided to one of her more daring classmates that she was going to the pictures and consequently had been offered a pot of rouge, a pencil liner and a pair of tweezers to attend to her feathery brows. For half an hour she experimented, turning herself into a fair imitation of the fashionable flapper girls.

Gussie's face was a picture when she saw her daughter, but with admirable control she managed to restrain herself from saying anything. She knew how much Harry meant to Margaret and had also seen the heartache he had caused her recently. In her own way she had even shared in her pain. Now she felt that if dressing-up for the occasion would make Margaret happier, that was all that mattered. Arms folded around herself, hands tucked into the pockets of her wrap-around floral apron, Gussie surveyed her daughter.

‘All I can say is that if Harry doesn't take any notice of you looking like that, then he never will,' she observed.

Margaret giggled, but it was a pleased giggle.

‘It's all right then?'

‘It's lovely. What time is he picking you up?'

‘Half-past six. I've got ten minutes to spare, so I think I'll sit down and do a bit more of my English literature reading.'

But it was no use, she could not concentrate, so she packed away her book and went to look out of the window, watching for him eagerly at first and then with mounting impatience. The mantel clock struck the half-hour, then the quarter, its pretty musical chime hanging in the air. At five to seven, Gussie looked in.

‘Harry's not here yet, then?'

‘No.' Margaret tried not to sound anxious. ‘If he doesn't come soon, we shall miss the start of the picture.'

‘Something's happened to hold him up, I suppose,' Gussie said, but inwardly she was as anxious as Margaret. She liked Harry, considering him a steady boy with more ambition than most, but disapproved of the way he treated her daughter. ‘I'll be in the kitchen if you want me,' she offered.

Margaret nodded and when her mother had gone she peered out of the window again, wondering if she should go down the road to meet him and so save precious minutes. But she didn't really want to look that eager. Imagine he's just leaving his road now, she told herself. He's coming round the corner, walking up the hill past the cottages, hurrying on the steep bit and he should be coming into view by the time I count to ten … well, maybe twenty. She counted slowly, almost stopping on eighteennineteen-twenty. But there was still no Harry.

The clock struck again – a quarter past seven – and Margaret's heart was a lump of lead pressing down in her chest. He wasn't coming. This was not the first time he had let her down, but it was the worst. She had been looking forward to it so much. Tears pricked behind her eyes, squeezed out and rolled in two large drops down her cheeks.

As the unrelenting minutes ticked by, she began to wonder if something had happened to Harry … an accident at work, perhaps. He could be dead and I'm standing here blaming him, she thought in panic. I can't wait any longer – I must go down to his house and find out!

But when she went to the kitchen to tell Gussie of her intention she met with opposition.

‘I don't think you should do any such thing, Margaret.'

‘But if something has happened, I wouldn't know …'

‘I don't think for one moment that anything has happened. At least, not the kind of thing you mean.' Gussie wiped her hands on a teacloth, deciding the time had come for some plain speaking. ‘The truth of the matter is that Harry is not as interested as you are and you might as well face it, love. He's got other things on his mind.'

‘Oh, I know he's busy – he's so keen to study and get on, but …'

‘He doesn't treat you right. If he really cared, he'd be here now. Oh, lovey …' She broke off as she saw the tears well up again. ‘It's hard, I know, but sometimes it's as well to face up to the truth. The way you're going on, you will just be hurt time and time again.'

‘But he does care – he does!' Margaret grasped at the memory of shared moments, tender touches – the moire band on her wrist.

‘Then where is he?' Gussie demanded. ‘Look at you … all dressed up and ready to go – and he should be here, but he isn't. You let him run rings around you, lovey. It's not the way.'

‘I don't care!' Margaret exploded. ‘I'd rather have him sometimes than not at all. Don't look at me like that! I
would
!'

‘Then you will just have to put up with it, won't you?' Gussie said.

Left alone again, Margaret's tears flowed freely, running rivulets of eye-pencil down her cheeks. All hope had gone now and she was not even watching for him when she heard his knock at the door. She jumped up, dashing at her face with her hands and suddenly trembling all over. He was here. Something
had
detained him … She had known it …

She ran into the hall to meet him. ‘Harry – what happened? I've been so worried …'

‘Sorry I'm late.' But he sounded only marginally concerned. ‘I got talking to the under-manager about what I'm doing and I didn't notice the time.'

And suddenly she was not worried or upset any more, just hurt and very angry.

‘But we were going to the pictures!'

‘I know. I'm sorry. We'll have to make it another night now.'

‘But I was all ready!'

‘I said I'm sorry …'

‘No, you're not!' she shouted. ‘You're not sorry at all. Sometimes, Harry Hall, I hate you!'

A look of utter bewilderment crossed his face. ‘But there's always another time.'

‘No, there isn't!'

‘There is.
The Jazz Singer
is on all the week.'

‘Maybe. But we won't be going, not together anyway.'

‘Why not?'

He really doesn't seem to know, she thought, sadness almost overcoming the anger.

‘Because I can't go on like this; there isn't any point. I'm sorry, but I just can't bear it.'

‘But Marg …'

‘Don't “but Marg” me! I really like you, Harry, ever such a lot. But I'm just a stop-gap to you. I come second to everything else.'

‘I've got to work, Marg, if I'm ever to make anything of myself – you know that. I like you too, but this is my life we're talking about.'

‘And I'm talking about
my
life! I don't expect to be the only thing that matters to you. I know you want to get on and I respect you for it. But I won't be made a fool of.'

‘I've never done that,' he protested.

‘No? What about tonight, then? Look at me – all dressed up and nowhere to go …' She broke off, fighting the threatening tears. ‘No, I'm sorry, Harry, but that's it, I'm afraid … Unless you can promise you won't let me down again.'

He shrugged. There was a mulish look on his face now.

‘All this fuss – just because we can't go to the pictures tonight.'

‘No, not just because of that. Because of all the other occasions when I've been left for a fool too. There was a time when I thought you liked me, but now I can see that even that wasn't what I thought; you just wanted to get in with my father. Now you don't want that any more, so you don't want me either.'

Harry moved to the door. ‘I don't have to stay here and listen to this.'

‘You'd better go then, hadn't you?' said Margaret.

The moment he had gone she began to cry again, bitter, unhappy tears. But after a while when her sobs had spent themselves, she was aware of a feeling almost of relief. Maybe there would not be any more shared moments, but there wouldn't be any more nights like this one either, waiting in vain for him to come. There would not be the laughter, but neither would there be the pain of rejection.

Perhaps one day when Harry has achieved his ambition, there may be another chance for us, thought Margaret, but for the moment I must put him out of my mind. And avoiding her mother, who was tactfully hiding in the kitchen, Margaret went upstairs to wash her face and change out of the dress that would never now be soiled by the grubby seats in the picture palace.

Autumn came in wet and windy and the inclement weather caused Amy problems and to spare. The high winds ripped the tarpaulin roof of her office, damaged lorry sheets covering loads that were waiting to go out and brought down a tree in the corner of the yard, necessitating extra work for Herbie and the other in men clearing it up.

One evening towards the end of September, Amy was working late. It had been raining all day and the river was running high along the boundary of the yard. Before leaving at five-fifteen Herbie had moved the lorries to the highest points and with the help of the other men secured new tarpaulins over the waiting loads, but Amy was still anxious.

They hadn't had the floods up here since she had been in charge of the business, but there was always a first time. She knew the river was liable to flood and if it did, not only were the things in the yard in danger, but moving the lorries out in the morning would also be a problem. The lane was so low and flat just outside that it was always the first road in Hillsbridge to become impassable, with the bridge connecting the yard to the lane the most vulnerable of all. If the rain kept up, it could be two feet under water by morning and Amy had a full schedule booked for the next day.