The Hills and the Valley

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered

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  Contents

  Janet Tanner

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Janet Tanner

  The Hills and the Valley

  Janet Tanner

  Janet Tanner is a prolific and well-loved author and has twice been shortlisted for RNA awards. Many of her novels are multi-generational sagas, and some – in particular the Hillsbridge Quartet – are based on her own working class background in a Somerset mining community. More recently, she has been writing historical and well-received Gothic novels for Severn House – a reviewer for Booklist, a trade publication in the United States, calls her “a master of the Gothic genre”.

  Besides publication in the UK and US, Janet’s books have also been translated into dozens of languages and published all over the world. Before turning to novels she was a prolific writer of short stories and serials, with hundreds of stories appearing in various magazines and publications worldwide.

  Janet Tanner lives in Radstock, Somerset.

  Dedication

  To my daughters Terri and Suzanne with my love

  Chapter One

  As the train slowed to a grinding halt the girl in the crisp checked cotton dress swung open the carriage door and climbed down onto the platform. Passengers disembarking behind her jostled past and she stood hesitantly, clutching at, the brim of her straw boater which she held in front of her like a breastplate. Her face was flushed from a mixture of excitement and nervousness – a pretty face, round and even-featured and surrounded by a mass of honey coloured curls which had bounced into their usual irrepressible halo the moment her hat had been removed.

  She should not be here, of course, at Bristol Temple Meads railway station at twenty minutes past eleven on a Thursday morning. She should be at her desk in the big sunny room at her Convent School in Bath with the rest of her classmates in the Lower VI, listening to Sister Bridget droning Ovid – or perhaps Virgil. But Barbara Roberts had never been unduly influenced by what she should be doing. If there was something she wanted badly enough she usually managed to find a way of getting it. And she had wanted to come here this morning more than she had wanted anything for a very long time.

  A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she remembered how innocent she had managed to appear when she had gone to Sister Claude, her headmistress, after Prayers this morning and pleaded an appointment with the dentist.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Sister. Mum did write a note for me but I must have left it behind. It’s such a rush at our house in the mornings …’

  Behind her thick spectacles Sister Claude’s pale eyes had been shrewd and Barbara’s heart had lurched uncomfortably. But somehow she had maintained what Ralph Porter, her stepfather, always referred to as her butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-the-mouth expression.

  ‘You can ring Mum if you like,’ she said boldly. ‘You can reach her at her office number. But the trouble is she will be very busy.’

  The hint had gone home. Sister Claude knew very well that Amy Porter, Barbara’s mother, was indeed likely to be very busy. She headed not one but two businesses, Roberts Haulage and Roberts Transport, family concerns which had been started in the’twenties by Barbara’s father, Llew. After his death she had built them up almost from nothing until now they operated all over the country and incorporated a coal haulage business and a fleet of charabancs into the bargain. Sister Claude had never been certain how she regarded a woman in business, particularly if she happened also to be a wife and mother. But that did not alter facts. Amy Porter had chosen to send both Barbara and her younger sister Maureen to the Convent School and the not inconsiderable bills were paid each term without delay, something which could not be said for all the pupils. With costs mounting and daily talk of an approaching war threatening to throw everything into even greater uncertainty she could not afford to upset any one of her ‘parents’.

  ‘Where is your dentist, Barbara?’ she had enquired, folding her finger tips together in the way that the girls said jokingly made her look as if she were at prayer.

  ‘Mr Wenham Browne in the Circus, Sister.’ It was the truth. Only – please don’t let her ring him to check that I have an appointment today, Barbara prayed silently.

  ‘Hmm. And what about your sister? Don’t you usually have your dental appointments together?’

  ‘Yes. But not this time. This is special. I have to have my crown checked.’ Barbara’s fingers were tightly crossed in the pocket of her blazer. Let Sister ask Maureen if she wanted to. Maureen was briefed – the girls had worked it out together on their way to school – and though Maureen, serious to the point of being a ‘goody-goody’ in Barbara’s opinion, had not approved, Barbara knew she would not give her away. Let Sister ask Maureen – but not Mum or Mr Wenham Browne’s receptionist …

  Her prayer was answered.

  ‘Very well, Barbara. You may tell Sister Bridget you have my permission to be absent for an hour. But straight there and straight back, if you please. No detours round the shops. And conduct yourself as a young lady should. I know you do not always find that easy, but we have a reputation to maintain. Whilst you are in uniform you are an ambassador of the school. Kindly remember that.’

  ‘Yes, Sister. Thank you, Sister.’

  She had almost run out of the office and down the stairs between the heavily wood panelled walls. She had done it! It had been easy! Now all that remained was for her to get to the railway station without being seen and onto a train for Bristol.

  And she had managed it. There had been a nasty moment when she had thought there might not be a train, but it had arrived and now she was here in Bristol. All that remained was to discover which platform Huw’s train would be arriving at in ten minutes’ time and she would have achieved what she had set out to do – what she had been determined to do since Huw’s letter had arrived yesterday with the morning mail.

  ‘Huw is coming to Bristol tomorrow,’ Amy had said, reading the letter as she spread marmalade on her toast. ‘He has to pick up a plane and fly it back to his base.’

  ‘Pick up a plane! What a funny thing to do!’ Maureen had said, check
ing books into her satchel, but Barbara had almost dropped her coffee cup in excitement.

  ‘Does that mean he’ll be coming home?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. I imagine he will have to go straight to the airfield,’ Amy replied, propping up the sheets of blue paper covered with Huw’s unmistakably untidy hand behind the milk jug. ‘I’m sure the RAF don’t allow their pilots to wander around as the whim takes them.’

  ‘But we haven’t seen him for ages. His last leave was months ago,’ Barbara protested.

  ‘Has anybody seen my dictionary?’ Maureen enquired.

  Barbara ignored her.

  ‘Well, if he can’t come home to see us, why can’t we go to Bristol to see him?’ she demanded.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Barbara.’ Amy popped the last piece of toast into her mouth and stood up, fixing the circle of checked gingham over the top of the marmalade jar with an elastic band. ‘How can we do that?’

  ‘If we went to the station we’d be sure to see him.’

  ‘Maybe, but we can’t, can we? I shall be at work and you and Maureen will be at school.’

  ‘We could miss school just this once,’ Barbara pleaded. ‘I’ve only got Maths and Latin and …’

  ‘Certainly not. I pay good money for you to learn Maths and Latin.’ Amy checked her watch. ‘Come on, the pair of you. If we waste any more time I shall be late at the office and you will miss your bus.’

  ‘Babs, have you had my dictionary?’ Maureen persisted, and the usual morning rush to get out had taken over once more.

  But Barbara’s mouth had set in a stubborn line. Let the others be off-handed about it if they liked. Let them do what they liked. If Huw was going to be in Bristol then somehow she was going to make sure she was in Bristol too. If she could only see him for five minutes it would be worth it!

  All day, whilst she was supposed to be concentrating on her lessons, she had thought about it and at last she had come up with her plan. Now she stood triumphantly on the crowded platform and knew that this far, at least, it had worked.

  ‘Mind your backs please!’ A porter was walking the length of the train slamming doors again in readiness for departure and Barbara touched his sleeve.

  ‘Which platform does the Maidstone train come in at?’ Her voice was almost lost in the roar as the engine let off steam.

  ‘What’s that?’ He barely paused in what he was doing and she had to run a few steps after him to repeat her question.

  ‘The train from Maidstone.’

  He shook his head impatiently. ‘There’s no train here from Maidstone.’

  ‘But …’ Barbara was horrified. ‘I have to meet someone coming from Maidstone.’

  The porter was still walking, talking over his shoulder as he went. ‘You want the Paddington train. Platform Two. T’other side of the line.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  ‘Down them steps, along, and up t’other side.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  In her eagerness she almost started to run, then remembered Sister Claude’s admonition and slowed to a walk. Maybe she was in Bristol when she should be in Bath but whilst she was wearing her convent dress she had better try to behave like a young lady.

  It was rotten to have to wear a uniform, though. Barbara looked down at the print frock, the white socks and boringly sensible brown sandals with loathing. If only she could have worn her new green dress with its swirly skirt and decent stockings and shoes! If only she could have looked really nice for Huw so that he could see she was growing up instead of having to come to see him looking like a schoolgirl.

  I’m sixteen and I still look about twelve, Barbara thought in disgust.

  The steps leading down to the underpass were almost as crowded as the platform had been and smelled of accumulated steam, smoke and grime. A bit like stale egg sandwiches, Barbara thought. A train rattled by overhead, and the station announcer’s voice droned distantly and incomprehensibly. Up the steps on the other side she went into the dull grey light that filtered in through the smoke-blackened glass of the high vaulted roof and glanced off the dirty red-brick walls. Suspended from the steel girders was the sign, a large ‘2’ in black on dirty white.

  Barbara walked along behind the clustered passengers and stood between two wooden benches looking out of the station enclosure along the line for the first sign of the approaching train. Five minutes more and it should be here. What if it was late? She would already have some explaining to do back at school as to why her dental appointment had taken so long. But worry about that when the time came. For the moment just think about Huw …

  The minutes dragged by and Barbara counted them off on the enormous clock which was suspended above the platform. Then, when she had begun to think it would never come, she saw it snaking along the line. She moved forward with the surge of humanity, aware of a moment’s panic.

  In all these people – would she see him? Supposing after going to all this trouble she missed him! Or supposing he wasn’t there at all – had been forced to a change of plan perhaps?

  And then she saw him, swinging down onto the platform, and wondered how she could ever have been afraid she might have missed him. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark good looks enhanced by his airforce blue uniform. She began to run, not caring that her boater was being battered as she pushed through the mass of bodies.

  ‘Huw! Oh Huw! Over here! Huw!’

  He turned and saw her. She saw the surprise on his face swiftly followed by a delighted smile and her heart seemed to burst within her.

  Huw. She’d have crossed an ocean for him, braved anything to see him – much more than just old Sister Claude. Huw, her adopted brother, whom she had adored for as long as she could remember.

  She had been just three years old when he had come to live with them, a scruffy under-nourished boy of eight with a thick but musical Welsh accent and the look of the streets on his dark narrow face.

  To the rest of Hillsbridge, the small mining town, centre of the Somerset coalfield, where she had been born, he had been something of a mystery. Why, they had asked with nodding heads and knowing glances, why should Amy Roberts decide to take in a lad like that just because his mother had died of pneumonia while staying in a Hillsbridge boarding house, leaving him orphaned? All very well for her to say simply that he was Welsh, as Llew, her husband, had been and she could not bear to see him sent to an Industrial School along with all the other waifs and strays and boys who were out of control or just plain wicked. All very well for Charlotte Hall, Amy’s mother, to explain with a certain amount of bluster that Amy had been a little unhinged by the shock of Llew’s death in an accident at the depot yard. It was a peculiar thing, very peculiar indeed, and there was more to it than met the eye – there had to be.

  But Barbara had been too young to hear the speculation and she had neither known nor cared that Huw was causing Amy problems and to spare. To her, right from the start, Huw had been a hero, the big brother she had longed for. As a child she had followed him everywhere, running after him like a puppy dog. She had been unaware of how much he had hated both her and Maureen at first, hating them because they were clean and tidy, with bows in their hair and neat white ankle socks, hating them because they had a mother and he did not. She had been deaf to Amy’s entreaties to ‘leave Huw alone’, for Amy, even as she grew to love Huw, had been terrified he might lead her daughters into trouble. And gradually, as he had settled into his new life, he had begun to grow fond of her and make a fuss of her.

  The change had come, though Barbara had been too young to realise it, when Amy had married Ralph Porter. At first, Huw had rebelled against the authority which Ralph had represented, but hard won respect had come, and the bond had been cemented when Ralph had done what Amy, because of her youth, had been unable to do, and formally adopted Huw. Life had settled into a good and easy pattern, the long sunny days of childhood – and they had been the sunnier because Huw was there.

  It was Huw who had taught her to
ride a two-wheeled fairy cycle, a thrilling Christmas present when Amy and Ralph had decided she was big enough to graduate from her tricycle – not an easy feat when the only flat lane near their home, Valley View, was full of pot-holes. He had run beside her tirelessly, hanging onto the saddle, and picked her up and dried her tears when she fell off, grazing her hands and knees and scratching the paint on her precious machine. It was Huw who found a way to mend Rosie, her doll, when she lost her head, twisting a piece of wire to hold it on again, albeit a little skewed. And it was Huw who warned off the boys from Batch Row when they wrecked the tree house that she and Maureen had built and furnished lovingly with remnants of Amy’s net curtains and some old cracked pieces of china. Much later when one of them had followed Barbara home one night in the dusk and tried to steal a kiss he had caught up with him and knocked him down in the mud, bloodying his nose. The boy had gone home with his tail between his legs; he had not bothered Barbara again.

  And all the while the bond between them had grown stronger. When Huw had his first girlfriend Barbara had suffered agonies of jealousy. To see him with that stupid simpering Judy Button whose Uncle Herbie was Amy’s foreman and right-hand man, made her burn inside, and only her inner certainty that she, Barbara, was far more important to Huw than Judy could ever be, kept her from actually doing some of the drastic things she longed to do, like pulling Judy’s long brown Alice in Wonderland ringlets, or puncturing her bicycle tyres. And eventually her restraint had been rewarded. Huw had come in one night scowling and kicking over the milk bottles which Mrs Milsom the housekeeper had put out rinsed and ready for the roundsman and there had been no more Judy.

  The next trauma had been the greatest – when Huw had announced that he wanted to join the RAF. In her heart Barbara had known for a long while that one day it would happen. Huw had always been fascinated by flying, just as his Uncle Jack, Amy’s brother, had been. Uncle Jack was now a schoolmaster in a seaside town in South Somerset, but during the Great War he had flown a de Havilland with the RNAS, and when the children went to spend holidays with him he sometimes took Huw gliding – a sport he had managed to take up in spite of losing a leg in the war. Barbara had only to see Huw’s face after those trips to know where his heart lay and sometimes when they curled up with late night cups of cocoa, listening to the wireless and toasting their toes at the big open fire in the living room, he would talk to her about it.