The Hills and the Valley (6 page)

If they moved to a house somewhere on the level perhaps James would be able to get out a bit, even if it was in a wheelchair.

But convenient or not, Charlotte never gave a serious thought to moving. As she said to Peggy, this was her home and always had been. She had raised her family here – Jim and Jack, her pride and joy, Fred who had been killed in the Great War, scallywag Ted, in Australia now for the past ten years and doing well by all accounts, and Harry, who had forsaken managerial posts to become the Miners'Agent. And her daughters, too – placid, immovable Dolly, who had always been plump and now was downright cuddly, and Amy of whom she sometimes despaired and yet was always secretly proud. Amy, wilful and determined, who in spite of doing some things which might have shamed them all had still managed to marry Ralph Porter, one of the richest men in Hillsbridge, and send her two daughters to a private Convent school in Bath, a quite unheard-of status symbol.

It was their home too – a central core to their lives where they could gather together with all the grandchildren at Christmas and know that whatever else might change, their home never would.

‘I should think they'd have a fit if ever we moved', Charlotte would say.

This Saturday morning, however, any thoughts of moving or her own encroaching old age were far from Charlotte's mind.

It was a perfect September day, the kind of day when a clear blue sky above the still-green trees made a feeling of glad-to-be-alive spring in all but the most miserable breasts. Charlotte had been to market early, ‘Before it gets too hot,' she had told James, and now she was very glad she had, because she had a visitor. Margaret, Harry's wife, was Charlotte's favourite daughter-in-law and when she came to call Charlotte always put aside the round of endless chores and made time to sit down and share a cup of tea with her whilst exchanging news.

Today, with the sun warming the cottages up and down the Rank, they had taken their cups and the biscuit tin and gone to sit on the low wooden bench outside the back door.

‘Are you sure you don't mind, Dad?' Margaret had asked James, mindful of the hours he spent without much company in the cramped little kitchen, but he had smiled, a gentle smile that warmed his rheumy blue eyes.

‘Mind m'dear? Of course I don't mind. You get on out and enjoy the sunshine while you can. You start back to school next week, don't you?'

Margaret was a teacher. After qualifying at college she had come home and taken a post at Sanderley, a village three miles north of Hillsbridge and the selfsame school where Jack had once hoped to teach. She was a warm friendly girl with soft brown hair and a pleasant open face and her inborn sympathies had been nurtured by the home in which she had grown up. Her father, George Young, was a prime mover in the local Labour Party, a man genuinely committed to righting the inequalities of society and smoothing the path of those less fortunate than himself. From her childhood days Margaret had been encouraged to help with fundraising and give a little of her pocket money to charity, and when the terrible General Strike had reduced half of Hillsbridge to poverty she had seen her home become a clearing house for gifts of clothing, blankets and food for the needy. It had been her involvement with all this which had attracted Harry to her in the first place – that and the lovely way her face lit up when she smiled. In those days she had sometimes been afraid he wanted her not for herself but for all that her family stood for. Now she knew different. For Harry and for Margaret there had quite simply never been anyone else.

Now she settled beside Charlotte, raising her face to the warm September sun.

‘I'm glad we're on our own, actually. Much as I love Dad I really wanted to see you alone. I've got something to tell you.' She turned, no longer able to keep the joy out of her voice. ‘I'm going to have a baby. Harry and I … You're going to be a grandmother again.'

‘Oh, am I?'

Margaret's face fell. ‘You don't sound very pleased.'

‘Oh, Margaret love, of course I'm pleased if that's what you and Harry want.' Charlotte hesitated. Joyous event or not she had never been able to summon up any great enthusiasm when told of an impending birth. Much as she loved every one of her children, in her day more babies had been inevitable and usually more of an occasion for commiseration than congratulation. Nine long weary months followed by another mouth to feed. Each time she had become a grandmother the same doubts had arisen, too deeply seated to be easily put aside. Would the mother be all right? Too often in her day the mother had not. Would the baby be fit and healthy? Again she had had her worries justified when Dolly's Noel had been born ‘not quite all there', as Charlotte put it. And now … well, with the world in its present turmoil, was it a fit place to bring children into?

‘If it's what you want,' she said again.

‘Oh, it is!' Margaret's face was glowing again. ‘You don't know how much!'

‘That's the main thing. What does our Harry think about it?'

‘He's as pleased as I am.'

‘And when is the baby due? Not yet awhile I suppose.'

‘Not until March. I've really only just found out about it but I couldn't wait to tell you. I feel like shouting it from the rooftops but you can't do that sort of thing, can you?'

‘No.' Charlotte cast a shrewd glance at Margaret's slim, almost boyish figure. ‘What will you do about work?'

‘I think I can carry on until Christmas. Then I'll have nearly three months to rest and exercise and make all the preparations.'

Charlotte smiled wryly. Rest and exercise! That was the modern way for you! In the old days it had been work work and more work right up until your time.

‘Well, good luck to you,' she said. ‘Hey look – here comes Peg back from market. You'll be wanting to book her up for when your time comes I dare say.'

A plump fair-haired woman had turned the corner of the Rank carrying a laden shopping bag. Peggy Yelling was as old as Charlotte but somehow managed to look younger – because she had had fewer children, Charlotte thought. It always came back to the same thing …

‘No, don't say anything to Mrs Yelling yet,' Margaret said swiftly. A faint rosy colour had come up in her cheeks.

‘Oh, why's that then?' Charlotte asked.

‘Because – well, I might not be having the baby at home,' Margaret said awkwardly.

‘Oh! Not have it at home?' Charlotte was startled. ‘Why ever not?'

‘Because … well I just might not,' Margaret said defensively. ‘Don't say anything to her about it, please.'

Peggy was almost within earshot now and Charlotte was unable to question her further though she was determined to get to the bottom of it as soon as they were alone again.

‘Morning, Peg,' she called. ‘Nice morning.'

Peggy stopped, propping up her shopping bag against the leg of the wooden bench.

‘Weather's nice, yes. I don't know that the news is so good.'

‘Oh, what do you mean by that?'

Peggy took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped her perspiring forehead.

‘Well – this war. It's going to come, isn't it?'

‘Oh, I don't know. I think it's a lot of bluff. They'd never be that silly would they?' Years of living with James had endowed Charlotte with some of his simple optimism.

‘The Territorials have been called up,' Peggy said. ‘One of the doctors from South Compton is gone and that Conservative chap they say is going to be our next MP when Mrs Lincoln gives up. All his meetings have been cancelled. There's notices up all over the place. And now they're calling for men between forty-five and fifty-five to join the TA. When they start wanting the old'uns you can bet it's serious.'

In the moment's silence that followed the chimes of the town clock striking eleven carried up across the valley in the clear morning air.

‘Well, I'm going to look on the bright side,' Charlotte said stoically. ‘Look, Peg, it was bad enough last time, wasn't it? And this would be ten times worse. They reckon there'll be bombing and gas attacks. Well, nobody could be fool enough to start something like that, surely?'

‘They must think it's going to come though – to the cities anyway,' Margaret said. Her face had gone serious. ‘That's why they're starting evacuations.'

‘Yes, I heard about that.' Peggy finished mopping her brow and tucked her handkerchief back into her pocket. ‘There's some coming here, isn't there? I was reading about it in the paper yesterday.'

Margaret nodded. ‘They are expecting five train-loads in Bath today and some of them will be sent out here to Hillsbridge. Mum's Womens' Committee is involved with looking after them when they arrive and I'm supposed to be helping out. It will be quite a job finding them all somewhere to stay, and it won't only be the children but mothers with young babies as well.'

‘However will you manage?' Peggy asked.

‘We shall just have to find people willing to take them,' Margaret said. ‘We've been drawing up lists, but I don't think we've got enough. Actually, I thought of you for one, Mum. It's something else I wanted to ask you about. You've got a spare bedroom, haven't you?'

‘Yes, but I like to keep that in case our Jack and Stella want to come up and stay – or one of the grandchildren.'

‘It's not going to be easy, I know, but I'm afraid we're all going to have to make some sacrifices before it's over,' Margaret said.

Charlotte bristled. ‘What about your mother? She's got room for a couple up there, hasn't she?'

‘Yes, she's already promised to take at least one, perhaps two,' Margaret said and Charlotte felt a moment's irritation. Trust Gussie Young. She always had been a bit of a do-gooder. Charlotte herself, though more than willing to do whatever was necessary to help her own children, had always been inclined to feel that charity should not only start at home but also stop firmly at the back door.

‘The authorities are sending some provisions with the evacuees,' Margaret went on. ‘Enough tinned meat and milk and biscuits to last over the weekend so you need not worry about whether you'd have enough in your larder.'

This made Charlotte bristle afresh.

‘It wouldn't be
that
that would worry me. I always keep a good table, you should know that. It's just that I don't fancy taking in strangers. Especially Londoners. Your house wouldn't be your own.'

Peggy retrieved her shopping bag.

‘Oh well, no sense worrying about it. But if you're really stuck I might be able to take one. If our Colwyn clears all his junk out of the small room that is.'

‘Thanks, Mrs Yelling. I'll remember that,' Margaret said gratefully.

Peggy set off along the Rank towards her own house and Charlotte stared after her feeling vaguely betrayed.

‘I should have thought that was the last thing Colwyn would want,' she said tartly. ‘A strange child in the house. You know what his nerves are like. Now then, Margaret, you were just telling me about the baby when Peggy came along. You might not be going to have it at home, you say? Why ever not? There's nothing like being at home, I say. You wouldn't get
me
into a hospital, I can tell you …'

Before she could go on Peggy, who had reached her own door and gone inside, re-emerged, gesticulating wildly.

‘Lotty! Quick – go and put your wireless on!' she called. ‘Mr Chamberlain is going to make a broadcast!'

Charlotte and Margaret looked at one another, dawning apprehension reflected in their eyes. Then they ran into the house.

‘What be going on?' James asked, startled.

‘The wireless – Mr Chamberlain is going to make a broadcast!' Charlotte bustled over to the set, turning the knobs and twiddling. ‘Oh come on, come on! Why does it take so long for this thing to warm up!'

A few crackles of static seemed to answer her then the voice of the Prime Minister filled the room, solemn and overlaid with tones of foreboding.

When he had finished they remained silent for a moment or two. They had expected it, even Charlotte in spite of her protestations to the contrary. But now it had happened they were stunned by the enormity of it.

‘So, that's it then.' It was James who broke the silence, his wheezing voice almost as solemn as Neville Chamberlain's had been. ‘We'm at war.'

‘Yes,' Charlotte said. ‘God help the boys who will have to fight it.'

‘God help us all.'

Through the open window they heard voices. ‘Have you heard the news? We're at war! We declared war on Germany at eleven o'clock. Mr Chamberlain just broadcast…' Up and down the Rank people called to one another and eyes searched the skies as if expecting to see the first German bombers with their cargoes of death. Margaret picked up her bag.

‘I'd better be going. Maybe the evacuees will be here sooner than we think.'

‘All right, Margaret. When shall we see you and Harry?'

‘I don't know. Now … I don't know anything now …' She sounded as if she were in a state of shock and Charlotte for once was unable to argue.

‘Take care then. Come when you can.'

It was only when she had gone that Charlotte realised she had never got to the bottom of why Margaret was not having her baby at home. Events had overtaken her. What had seemed so vitally important a few short minutes ago had ceased to have more than the slightest significance. Mr Chamberlain had broadcast and the world had turned upside down.

‘Oh my Lord!' Charlotte said shaking her head. ‘Where do we go from here?'

Her only reply was James muttering as he always had done in moments of crisis. ‘Never mind, m'dear. Never mind. Worse things happen at sea …'

And Charlotte, still shocked, was unable to keep a sharp response from springing to her lips.