The Emerald Valley (66 page)

She was almost into Hillsbridge when Barbara squealed, ‘There's a car coming, Mammy! A car!'

She had been bending over to adjust Maureen's bonnet as she walked, but now she glanced up and went weak inside. There was no mistaking that car – big and classy, bright red at a time when most cars still came in a choice of two colours – black or black! It was Ralph's Morgan.

Flustered, she found herself wondering frantically whether or not to wave and then, as the car drew closer, she froze. There was a woman in the passenger seat and as it passed Amy got a clear view of a fine-boned face beneath an emerald green cloche hat, framed by the collar of an emerald jacket. Beside her, Ralph raised a hand to Amy in mock-salute. Then they were gone and Amy was left feeling as if the bottom had dropped out of her world all over again.

It was true then, what Herbie had said, and not just idle gossip. And if Ralph was here in Hillsbridge with her again, then the affair must be on a serious basis.

Perhaps he
is
going to marry her! thought Amy wretchedly. And then, as defiance rushed in to anaesthetise the pain a little: Well, good luck to him. If that's the kind of woman he wants, let him get on with it – and much good may it do him. She'll spend all his money for him and make his life a misery with her demands. Still, it's his funeral!

It never occurred to Amy to wonder if she might be judging unfairly. She was opinionated enough to believe one quick glance was sufficient for her to sum up the character accurately – and too hurt to want to credit Ralph's lady friend with even the smallest asset.

‘Mammy, you're hurting my hand!' Maureen complained and Amy loosened tension-tight fingers.

‘Sorry, my love.'

‘What's wrong, Mammy?' Babs chirped in.

‘Nothing;' Amy said and told herself the same: There is nothing wrong – nothing at all. Well, there is nothing
different
any way from what it was yesterday. You may be just a bit wiser – and that can't be bad. So forget it – forget Ralph and forget the hoity-looking woman in emerald green.

But she could not forget. It hovered at the edges of her mind, casting long shadows and colouring everything she did and thought …

With Huw away the house was surprisingly quiet.

I didn't realise how noisy he was! Amy mused and then came to the conclusion that probably it wasn't
just
Huw who roared about the place, but the fact that when he was there he encouraged the girls to join in with noisy games. Left alone, they were playing quietly apart from the occasional inevitable squabble. Bedtime too was completed at the girls' earlier time, and Amy found herself almost at a loose end.

As always, of course, there was plenty to do if she cared to look for it, but she didn't feel like doing anything. She tuned into the wireless, but listening to music could not prevent the thoughts of that morning's encounter from whirling chaotically around in her head. I must admit they do make a good pair, she thought grudgingly. No doubt she had the same kind of background as Ralph and like it or not, she would be an asset – superb when it came to entertaining, knowing who should sit where and what cutlery to lay. I'd be totally dependent on Mrs Milsom if ever I found myself in that position – and if she did anything wrong, I wouldn't know!

But the emptiness inside her was complete. It was all very well to try to be philosophical about it – that didn't ease the ache of broken dreams or lift the heavy weight around her heart.

She decided to get in some more coal. It was chilly in the evenings now and she thought she could do with the comfort of a fire.

While she was in the coal-house she heard a car stop outside and peeped out to see who it was. The vehicle was out of sight, hidden behind the hedge, but someone was walking up the path – someone whose bowed head made him look almost like an old man.

‘Oliver! Is that you?' she called.

‘Yes.' His voice sounded strained too.

‘Wait a minute – I'm in the coal-house …' She emerged with her bucket and he followed her round to the back door. As the pool of light from the kitchen caught his face, she drew in a shocked breath for he looked ten years older than when she had last seen him – haggard, middle-aged, his round face falling into pouches of distress. Her first thought was for Jack, Stella and Huw driving back to Minehead. Had something happened to them? Was Oliver bearing terrible news? She began to tremble right down to the tips of her fingers.

‘What's the matter?' she asked sharply.

‘You haven't heard, then,' he said heavily and her blood seemed to turn to ice. So there was something she didn't know! She closed the door, leaning heavily against it.

‘Heard what?'

‘About Grace.'

‘Grace?'

‘My wife.'

‘No. What about her?'

‘She tried … oh God, Amy, I don't know how to put this into words … she tried to do away with herself.'

Amy stared in disbelief, straightening away from the door. It was Oliver who was sagging now and she pulled a chair forward for him.

‘You mean commit suicide?'

He nodded.

‘But how?'

‘Like so many people do, she went down to the Mill and jumped in the river.'

‘Oh, my God!' Amy pressed her hands over her mouth and closed her eyes tightly for a moment. Then, ‘Is she all right? She didn't succeed, did she, Oliver?'

‘No, she didn't succeed, thank God! Someone saw her acting strangely and followed. Then, when they heard the splash and the scream …'

‘She screamed?'

‘The cold water brought her to her senses and she panicked – tried to get to the bank. But the river is deep and overgrown just there and Grace can't swim. She would have drowned without a doubt, but the man who had followed her alerted the manager at the Mill, who was working late, and between them they managed to get her out.'

‘Oh Oliver, it's terrible!' Amy said, distressed. ‘Where is she now?'

Oliver sat forward in the chair, head bowed, big hands rumpling through gingery hair.

‘In hospital.'

‘Suffering from shock, I suppose? Where is she – at the Cottage Hospital?'

The crown of gingery hair moved slowly from side to side. ‘No – no …'

‘Not the Cottage Hospital? Then where … ?' Amy's voice tailed away as the truth dawned. ‘Oh, Oliver, you mean she's …'

‘In Wells. The asylum. I've fought it, Amy, as long as I could, but there comes a time when you have to give in and face up to the facts. There's nothing I can do for Grace, but somebody's got to do something to help her, for Christ's sake! She can't go on like this. It's terrible for her and for us, and I never know what she's going to do next. How could I leave her in charge of the children? She might do anything, I just can't trust her.'

‘So you've had her put away?'

‘For the time being. Oh, Amy, don't say it like that! It sounds so cold and hard. Not that there
is
a nice way of putting something like that. Believe me, over the years I've tried to couch that kind of thing in gentle phrases for my patients – the brutal truth is that there's no way to soften it, not when it's your own wife.'

‘She's in the best place, Oliver,' Amy said inadequately.

‘Yes, I know. I've said
that
to patients a good many times, too,' he replied. ‘That doesn't help either. And there's more … she might face criminal proceedings. Christ, what a mess!'

Amy looked at him sadly. This was her childhood hero, the man whose golden image had lightened a thousand dark hours for her. Now he was as much in need of help as she had ever been.

‘Would you like a drink?' she asked. ‘I can't offer you a choice, I'm afraid, but I do have half a bottle of brandy in the cupboard, strictly for emergencies.'

He didn't answer and she went into the front room for the brandy, pouring out two glasses. When she pushed one into his hand he gulped it back and she came over to give him another.

‘Go on, I can spare it. The bottle hasn't been touched since Babs had a bilious attack last Christmas …'

There was a long awkward silence. Oliver drained his glass for a second time and again Amy tipped golden liquid into it. He looked as if he could drink the bottle dry and still it would not do him any good, she thought.

‘Whatever made her do it?' she asked after a moment, speaking more to herself than to him. ‘I know she hasn't been well for a long while, but she must have got worse all of a sudden.'

‘Something triggered her off, obviously.' Oliver rolled the glass between his hands. ‘If you ask me, it might have been seeing Stella this morning that did it.'

‘Seeing
Stella
?' said Amy incredulously.

‘Between you and me, Grace is very jealous of Stella.'

‘But why should she be? That's just silly!'

‘There's not necessarily too much reason behind these things,' he pointed out. ‘But Grace was the one who always seemed to have everything.'

He laughed in a self-deprecatory manner. ‘Grace obviously wouldn't agree with you.'

‘Then's she's mad!' Instantly she could have bitten out her tongue. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean that …'

‘I told you, when she's ill Grace sees things in a different perspective from when she's well. And I've been a disappointment to her, no doubt. I believe Grace liked the idea of marrying a doctor, but she didn't expect me to bury myself in a country practice, especially not back here in Hillsbridge. It would have suited her very well if I had gone in for a consultancy, in Harley Street, say. For all that she was born and bred here, Grace is a city bird. I have thought for some time that maybe it was a mistake to come back. I even wondered about moving again. But for my own selfish reasons, I fought against it.'

‘You mean because you're happier in the country?'

‘That – and other things.' He looked up at her, his face haunted, and as their eyes met she knew with startling suddenness what those other things were. It was there, etched in those expressive brown eyes, a longing that he would never –
could
never – put into words.

In that moment of confused certainty, Amy found herself piecing together the clues which had been there all the time had she only had the insight to recognise them. The times when he had come just to sit in her kitchen. The tension which grew when she mentioned his wife and family. His words just the other day: ‘If only she could be more like you, Amy!'

Somewhere along the line Oliver had stopped seeing her as the little girl he had once eased away from death's door. At some stage he had looked at her and seen a woman – a woman he wanted. He had hidden it well and Amy had never suspected for a moment. But now, after a day that must have been a living hell for him, he had turned to her as the one person in Hillsbridge in whom he felt able to confide, the one person he wanted to be with.

The knowledge overwhelmed her. Her idol had feet of clay. Yet somehow he was the more attractive for being human. Once, a long time ago, he had sustained her in time of need; now she had her chance to do the same for him.

As the tenderness welled up in her, she dropped to her knees beside him, tentatively touching his hands. His eyes came up to meet hers again and the look in them was as nakedly obvious as ever. Beneath her touch, he turned his hands so that his fingers grasped hers and she did not move away.

Pity was stirring warmth in her and his touch was evoking sharp, sweet memories of other touches. But most potent of all was the heady cocktail stirred in her by the knowledge that she was needed. Oh, it was so long since she had been needed! More than two long years. Ralph didn't need her, he never had. Ralph needed nobody – but if he ever did, she was not the one who would fill his need. The woman in the emerald toque would do that.

The pain twisted in her again, too hurtful to bear and her breath came out on a small sob.

Oh Ralph, why isn't it you here, holding my hands? Why – why? What sorry creatures we are – I'm crying inside for Ralph and Oliver's crying for … for what? For Grace, his wife, mother of his children, who tried to take her life today – or for me, because he thinks I'm all the things she isn't: brave, happy, strong … But I'm not, Oliver, I'm not! I'm a human being too and I'm afraid of the future without Llew or Ralph … afraid … afraid …

‘Amy.' His voice was low, husky with desire, and he pulled her gently towards him so that she was held between his knees. Brown eyes held blue and she felt the strength draining out of her.

I don't love him … But he's here; he's real, living, breathing flesh and he needs me. We need each other. It's been so long, dear God, so long.

Her skin was tingling now, each pore crying out for his touch. Breathless it seemed she hung there, suspended over the abyss of desire which could blot out thought, drain away conscience. Right or wrong – what did they matter? What did anything matter? He was here and she was here, two souls drowning in a sea of misery.

His hands left hers, sliding up her arms to her elbows and then to her shoulders. They paused there, gripping, and as the pressure increased so her chin lifted until the tendons in her neck were taut. She could see his face above her, too close to be distinct, and the smell of his shaving soap was in her nostrils.

When his mouth covered hers she gasped deep in her throat. His kiss was so hungry that it seemed to squeeze the breath from her and gave no leeway to draw another. In panic she twisted her head from side to side but he refused to let her go, his fingers biting into her shoulders, his mouth devouring her. Just when she felt her lungs would burst he released her lips and as she drew breath she was aware that every one of her senses had been heightened. She pressed closer, winding her arms around the solid barrel of his chest and when his hands slipped from her shoulders to the back fastening of her dress, she only moved towards him.