The Hills and the Valley (21 page)

He was pedalling back along the New Road without any dear idea where he was going. Not the Miners Arms, certainly. He rode past the door quickly hoping no one would come out and see him. If he couldn't face the thought of his family just now, how much less could he take the crudejokes of the mates who still thought he was going to be a bridegroom tomorrow. Automatically he turned left, free wheeling down into Combers End. Past the drapers shop, past the fish and chip café, past the Palace Cinema where his grandmother had once worked as a cleaner. The road flattened out and he started pedalling with urgency, heading for the cottages at the lower reaches of Purldown.

No lights were showing at the windows – the blackout held. He fished his keys out of his pocket, fumbled to get them in the lock, dropped them. He was on his hands and knees scrabbling around in the dark to retrieve them when her door opened and a crack of light streaked the black path.

‘Alec! Is that you?'

‘Yes.'

‘What are you doing here? I thought you'd be busy with the wedding tomorrow.'

He straightened up. He could see her slight form silhouetted in the doorway.

‘No …' he hesitated. ‘Can I come in, Bryda?'

‘If you like. Eric is out playing cribbage.'

She opened the door and he followed her into the kitchen. She had been knitting; a ball of wool, needles and a length of half-finished garment lay on the chair. She removed it to the table.

‘I'm really surprised to see you tonight, Alec. I never thought …'

‘It's all off,' he said.

‘What's off?' she asked, uncomprehending.

‘The wedding. I called it off.' Because of you, he wanted to add. But he did not.

‘Off?' she repeated. ‘You mean you're not getting married?'

‘No. I couldn't do it.'

‘Oh poor Joan!'

‘Never mind Joan,' he said. ‘I don't feel so hot about it myself.'

And suddenly all the emotion that had turned to flatness was emotion again.

‘Oh Christ,' he said. ‘What have I done?'

She came to him putting her arms around him, asking no more questions, and this time it was she who was the comforter.

‘Oh Alec, Alec …'

He buried his face in her shoulder and without realising it he was crying, silent tears forming in his eyes and running down his face.

‘Don't,' she whispered. ‘If you really didn't want to then you did the right thing. It may seem awful now but not nearly as awful as being married to the wrong person.'

‘I know. I know.'

As the torment subsided a little he began to be aware of her nearness, not just as a comforter but as a woman and small barbs of fire ran through his veins.

‘Oh Bryda,' he moaned.

In all these weeks they had barely touched. Now the contact unleashed the volcano within and they were kissing, clinging, exploring, their desperation for one another blinding them to everything else.

‘Bryda, I love you. I couldn't marry her. I love you.'

‘And I love you. Oh Alec …'

The oilcloth floor was covered only by a couple of bright rag rugs but it might have been a bed of silk and down. With a passion wilder than Alec would have believed possible they sought one another and it was even better than he had know it would be. Their mutual longing for one another swept them to heights neither had dreamed of, then let them slowly back into a valley of contentment. For a long while they lay without speaking as if they knew that to speak would be to break the spell. Then, as sanity returned she pulled away, getting up and straightening her clothing.

‘You'd better go,' she said.

He looked at her in disbelief. ‘What do you mean?'

‘It's getting late. Eric will be home.'

‘But …' He got up, buttoning his trousers. This was all backwards. When he and Joan had made love it had been she who had asked for the commitment afterwards. Now … ‘What are we going to do?' he asked. ‘Us – you and me.'

‘What can we do?'

‘But we – I love you, Bryda. And you feel the same – you know you do.'

‘I'm a married woman.'

‘But he's a pig. No, worse than a pig. A pig wouldn't do what he does to you.'

‘He is my husband.'

‘You could leave him. Come away with me.'

‘Where?'

‘I don't know. Anywhere.'

‘But – what would you do?'

‘I don't know that either. But it doesn't matter, does it? At least we'd be together.'

‘Oh Alec, if only we could!'

‘We can. We can do anything! God knows my name will be mud in Hillsbridge now I've jilted Joan. We could go …' He thought of Uncle Ted doing well in Australia. ‘We could emigrate. Make a fresh start the other side of the world.'

‘Oh Alec!' She looked undecided. For a glorious moment it all seemed possible. ‘What about little Beryl?'

‘She'd come with us. I'd look after her like my own.'

‘Oh Alec!'

The back door opened.

In all the crazy elation of the last minutes they had both forgotten Eric, due home from his cribbage match. Now he stood in the doorway, a big rough-looking man, raincoat buttoned around his burly chest, cap pulled well down over his coarse-featured face.

‘Eric – you're home!' Bryda said, her voice breathy and nervous.

He ignored her. ‘What are you doing here?' he asked Alec.

‘He just popped in. He is going to be our neighbour you know.'

‘Then he'd better learn to stay in his own bloody house hadn't he?'

‘Eric – you're ever so wet. It's raining out, is it? Take your coat off …' She ran to him as if to help him out of his coat.

Eric looked at Alec, bone dry without a coat, and his eyes narrowed.

‘It's been raining an hour or more. How long has he been here that you didn't know?'

‘Look here, Eric …' Alec began, but Eric's attention was now centred on Bryda. Beneath his gaze her hands flew to tidy her hair and fasten a button on her dress. Her face was flushed, the guilt written all over her.

A spasm of fury distorted Eric's face. His hand shot out and the flattened back of it caught Bryda full in the mouth. She staggered back, collided with the arm of the chair and sat down hard.

‘Bloody bitch!' he spat at her. ‘You're bloody cuckolding me, aren't you?'

Alec stepped between them. ‘Leave her alone! If you want to hit someone, hit me! Go on!'

Bryda jumped up, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, and grabbed Eric's right arm with both hands. ‘Stop it! Stop it, do you hear? Go, Alec! You'd better go!'

‘And leave you to him? Not bloody likely!'

‘You little bastard!' Eric shook himself free of Bryda like a bull disentangling himself from a bramble. She staggered again, still groggy, and Eric came at Alec with raised fists. Alec sidestepped and Eric cannoned into the table so that the sugar basin bounced off and shattered on the floor in a welter of sugar and shards of china.

‘Please go, Alec!' Bryda screamed. ‘He'll kill you!'

As Eric rushed at him again Alec grabbed the first thing that came to hand to defend himself – an ornamental brass toasting fork. Holding it by the prongs he swung it at the charging Eric. The carved emblem on the handle caught Eric on the cheek and he checked, then came on, roaring with fury. Alec sidestepped and swung again. The handle of the fork connected with Eric's temple, the man's own momentum giving the blow extra force. To Alec's amazement he went down like a skittle, crashing against the corner of the range.

Christ I've killed him! Alec thought in panic.

Eric tried to rise and fell back again. Bryda flew across the kitchen dropping to her knees beside her husband. Blood was seeping from his cheek; an angry weal showed on his temple where the fork had caught him.

‘Eric!' she screamed.

‘Bastard!' Eric muttered, stunned as much by his fall as by Alec's blows.

Alec advanced, holding the toasting fork threateningly. ‘Try again and you'll get some more! Bryda – get Beryl and come with me.'

‘No!' She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve, dabbing at Eric's bleeding face. ‘For goodness sake, Alec, go! Haven't you done enough?'

‘I'm not leaving without you.'

‘Don't be so foolish. What are you thinking of?' She was crying now from pain and fright. ‘I never thought it would come to this. Oh, get out! Get out!'

Alec took a step back, bewildered by the venom in her tone. ‘But …'

‘Get out! I'm not going anywhere with you. Can't you understand that? Oh, just leave us alone!'

‘But he …'

‘I'm used to him. We were all right before you came. You've just made things a hundred times worse.' She was still dabbing obsessively at the blood on Eric's cheek. ‘Don't you understand? He's my husband!'

‘Get out, Hall!' Eric said. He was beginning to recover himself a little. ‘And if I see you around here again I swear you'll wish you'd never been born.'

‘Go, Alec, for pity's sake – go!' Bryda moaned.

For a moment Alec stood there looking at them, then he flung the toasting fork down on the table and went to the door.

‘Bryda …' he said helplessly.

But she was still on her knees beside Eric, ignoring him. Long after he had stumbled out into the dark wet night the picture remained imprinted on his mind.

‘Oh my Lord, whatever next!' Charlotte said. ‘Whatever can our Alec be thinking of?'

‘Well, there you are, Gran. I thought you'd like to know right away.'

In an effort to maintain normality Charlotte crossed to the hob that jutted out over the open fire, turning the saucepan of potatoes which sat there simmering gently.

The last few days seemed to have comprised nothing but a series of shocks. First Jim arriving at the door on what should have been Alec's wedding day. Charlotte had been up early and was already dressed in the smart black silk dress which came out for special occasions; her black straw hat and a flower which she intended to pin to the matching silk coat lay in readiness on the table. When Jim had told her the wedding was off she could hardly believe it and later, when she heard the story of what had happened between Alec and Eric Latcham, she had trembled again for the story resurrected too many memories she would have preferred to forget.

‘Thank the Lord he didn't kill him!' she said with feeling and James knew she was remembering the terrible business when Ted had ‘gone after'Rupert Thorne who had seduced his beloved Becky. Ted had done no more than Alec had done but by a stroke of ill fortune Rupert had died and Ted had stood trial for his murder.

‘Thank the Lord it ended there!' Charlotte had said. ‘They'll get over it in time, I suppose. But I wish it hadn't happened, all the same.'

And now this. Here was May, Alec's sister, standing in the kitchen and telling Charlotte that Alec had gone off to a Bath recruiting office and signed on for the army. Again, Charlotte had experienced a sense of
déjà-vu.
Fred had done the same, and Ted. Ted had ended up wasting years of his life in a prison camp and Fred had never come back at all. The war to end all wars it was supposed to have been. That was the reason her boy, along with thousands of others, had laid down his life. And what had happened? Less than twenty years later and it was all happening again. Only this time it was Alec, her grandson, who would be marching off to God knew where.

And all because of love. It was just like Ted all over again. Charlotte stared down at the bright coals in the grate and let the patterns dance before her eyes. Suddenly she felt very old. Life was like a switchback ride at the funfair, round and round, up and down, only the trouble was you couldn't get off. Not until the very end. And even then who knew what would happen?

I'll still be up there worrying about them as I twang my harp, Charlotte thought with a touch of wry humour.

Aloud she said: ‘Where is he going, and when?'

‘We don't know yet, Gran. He'll have to train first, of course. We'll let you know the moment we hear anything.'

Charlotte nodded. ‘I wish you would.'

After May had gone she sat down in her easy chair resting her legs for a moment. Her ankles swelled badly these days, sometimes forming rolls over the top of her shoes.

‘Oh, the silly boy!' she said softly. ‘Let's just hope he won't be mixed up in the worst of it. This is going to break our Sarah's heart, especially coming on top of the rest of it. I know she's in a terrible state now about all the goings on.'

James wheezed and covered his mouth with a thin hand in which the veins, dark with coal dust, stood out in cords and knots. His blue eyes were rheumy and distant.

‘Never mind, m'dear,' he said, resorting to his usual calm acceptance. ‘Worse things happen at sea, you know. Worse things happen at sea!'

By the end of May when the horse chestnut trees at the Hillsbridge end of the New Road were heavy with fragrant mauve and white cones and the flowers in the dusty beds beneath them were beginning to bloom into a carpet of red, white and blue, the towns folk had forgotten the stir which had been caused by Alec Hall jilting Joan Tiley and getting into a fight with Bryda Latcham's husband, Eric. They had even forgotten the excitement of hearing that Harry Hall might be selected as prospective Labour Candidate for the constituency. For the war which throughout the winter had seemed so distant and unreal had suddenly erupted.

Hitler's troops had rampaged through France, driving the Allied force back until they were trapped on the beaches of Dunkirk, and the people of Hills bridge along with the rest of the country had followed the news of their evacuation by a flotilla of small boats with a mixture of dismay and stubborn pride.

Unbelievably, Hitler was on the doorstep now, kept at bay only by the narrow moat of the English Channel. Hearts beat faster but faces remained set with stoic calm and even optimism. ‘Let him try to take us the way he's taken France! Just let him try …'