The Emerald Valley Read online

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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

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Janet Tanner

  The Emerald 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 mother

  Chapter One

  The Ford motor lorry stood in the centre of the depot yard, square, squat and spanking brand-new. Its cab was painted green – a darker green than the grassy hillside that provided a backdrop to the yard on its south side – and the strong spring sunlight drove a straight shaft in through the windscreen and out through the small oval of glass at the rear of the driver’s cab. It caught the yellow legend on the door also, making it stand out with a sharpness that was almost hurtful to the eye:

  ‘L. ROBERTS. HAULAGE CONTRACTOR.

  HILLSBRIDGE.’

  A few yards away a young woman stood looking thoughtfully at the lorry, one hand resting lightly against her narrow pleated skirt, the other playing restlessly with her honey-coloured curls, square-cut to a bouncing ‘bingle’ – the style that bridged the gap between the flattering bob and the fashionable but more severe shingle. Cornflower-blue eye were narrowed behind long fair lashes and there was a determined set to the delicate, heart-shaped chin and the clearly defined mouth.

  Amy Roberts knew what she wanted all right – just as she had always known. And what was more she was determined to get it – just as she usually did. The only thing that surprised her was that on this occasion getting her way had taken so long, and the person who had stood stubbornly in her way was the one she could usually get round the most easily – her husband, Llew. Generally, Llew would refuse her nothing. When those lips and eyes smiled together and the dimples played in her cheeks he was ready to weaken; when she put her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his – rounded and feminine beneath the boyish line of the clothes – he was lost.

  But on this particular issue Llew Roberts had not weakened; this one thing he had continued to refuse. For after all, what man in his right mind would allow his wife to drive a lorry?

  ‘Don’t be so silly, Amy – of course you can’t! You wouldn’t be strong enough, for one thing.’

  ‘I’m sure I would be,’ she had argued. ‘I cut my muscles helping my mother put the Monday washing through the mangle when I was still at school. And I still do it – every week – shirts and sheets you’ve made dirty, Llew Roberts.’

  He had ignored the jibe. He disliked seeing his wife mangling washing – and the sooner he could afford to pay someone to do it for her, the better. But he did not want to see her driving a lorry either – the whole idea was preposterous.

  ‘I’m sorry, Amy, I haven’t got time to teach you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t take any time at all!’ she had insisted. ‘You’ve told me plenty of times about when you went up to Birmingham to collect your first lorry. You said you’d never even driven a car and they showed you where the gears were, three forward and one back, told you which way to turn the wheel to go left and right and left you to it. You drove all the way back to Hillsbridge on your own – eighty-odd miles. So how you can say I couldn’t do it, I don’t know!’

  ‘But that was in 1922, Amy. This is 1926 and there’s a lot more traffic on the roads now than there was then. Besides, I’m a man …’

  ‘Hmm!’ she had snorted. ‘What difference does that make, I should like to know? I’m as clever as most of the men I know – and cleverer than quite a lot of them. I could have got a scholarship and stayed on at school if I’d wanted, like you did, only I didn’t want to. But when I see some of the fatheads I was at school with driving and you say they can do it just because they’re men – well, it’s quite ridiculous.’

  But Llew had refused to be moved, by threat or entreaty, by bribery or blackmail.

  ‘No, Amy, you’re not driving my lorry,’ was all he would say, and so far Amy had had no chance to disobey. She had watched, waited and plotted for a chance to get her way, all without success – until today, when Llew had gone off on a long trip that would keep him away until late. And Amy had come to the depot yard with one purpose in mind – to drive the lorry as she had wanted to do for so long.

  It had been a shock to discover that Llew had taken his old lorry for the trip – the lorry that he had described in his story of ‘three gears forward and one back, turn the wheel this way for left, this way for right.’ She had heard it so often she felt sure she could have emulated Llew’s success almost without trying. But for some reason it was the new lorry, collected only a fortnight ago, that now stood in the depot yard, gleaming and winking in the spring sunshine. For a moment Amy had hesitated. The new lorry was Llew’s pride and joy. But she had had to wait so long for this chance to try to drive … and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  As she stood looking at the lorry a lanky man in overalls crossed the yard towards her – Herbie Button, Llew’s right-hand-man. Herbie’s brother, Cliff, ran a taxi service in Hillsbridge and sometimes when he was fully booked for weddings and funerals Herbie helped him out. But there wasn’t enough work to keep the two brothers fully occupied and two years ago Herbie had thrown in his lot with Llew Roberts.

  ‘Afternoon, Mrs Roberts,’ he greeted her, and even now, after two years, the name stuck like black treacle in his mouth. He had known her when she was a little girl, pretty, mischievous Amy Hall, and ‘Mrs Roberts’did not come quite naturally. But it was what Llew insisted on, and Llew was the boss.

  She tilted her head to look at him and he knew at once from her expression that she was up to something.

  ‘Hello, Herbie.’

  Oh yes, her ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ expression was hiding something, he was sure of it. But he warmed towards her all the same. That was one thing about Amy Hall – Mrs Roberts. You could know she was after something, cooking up some scheme, using that charm of hers to get her own way, but it made no difference. You still couldn’t help but like her.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you today, Mrs Roberts,’ he said conversationally. ‘Little’uns all right, are they?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’ She dismissed the ‘little’uns’ – her children – with a quick, impatient smile. Barbara, at three, was a charmer, with her mother’s golden curls and blue eyes, and Maureen, though not quite a year, was already displaying a personality of her own. But they took up so much of her time that sometimes Amy almost resented them – though she always had the grace to feel guilty about it later. They were healthy and beautiful and she loved them – it was just that there were now so many other things she wanted to do besides feeding and looking after them, washing and ironing and tidying up the muddles they made. Thank heavens there was no need to have a string of children any more, as women had had to in her mother’s day, was all she could say …

  Herbie Button pushed his cap to the back of his head with a grimy hand.

  ‘Well, we’re not expecting Mr Roberts back until late. He and Ivor Burge have gone off down to …’

  ‘I know,’ she cut in. ‘And I want to be able to give him a surprise when he gets back, Herbie.
’

  The grimy fingers scratched in the hair that had previously been covered by his cap.

  ‘Surprise? What sort of surprise, Mrs Roberts?’

  Her lower lip tightened; small tucks appeared in her cheeks instead of dimples.

  ‘I want to be able to drive the lorry.’

  ‘What?’ If she had said she wanted to take off for the moon he couldn’t have been more surprised. There she stood, a slip of a girl in a pleated dress up to her knees and a pair of those shoes with the silly little heels that got thin in the middle and a gold gypsy bracelet just above her left elbow biting into the plump flesh without a hint of muscle in it, and told him she wanted to drive the lorry. ‘Oh, you’re joking, of course, Mrs Roberts,’ he added in relief.

  ‘No, I’m not joking.’ Her chin came up and the expression in her eyes made the shock hit him all over again. She wasn’t joking. He could see that now.

  ‘Please, Herbie, don’t tell me I can’t,’ she said, a slightly threatening note creeping into her voice. ‘I’ve heard that quite often enough. I just want you to show me how. And there’s no need to look so worried, either. I’ll make sure Llew doesn‘t take it out on you; I shall tell him I made you.’

  Herbie scratched his head again and settled his cap back squarely over it.

  ‘Well, if you’m sure you know what you’m doing …’

  ‘I’m sure.’ She reached up to open the cab and climbed up onto the running board, showing enough leg to make Herbie glance sideways in embarrassment – what were girls coming to! Then she was easing herself into the plump curve of the leather seat, as yet unsoiled by the daily round of grubby trousers, holding the wheel between her hands and stretching her feet out towards the pedals that were the touchstone of the mystery of driving.

  ‘Now just tell me, Herbie – this one’s for when I want to go faster, is that right? And this one for when I want to stop?’

  ‘You can’t reach them, can you?’ he accused.

  ‘Of course I can!’ It was an effort, but she could do it, just, by really stretching. If only I were a bit taller, Amy thought, as she did so often. Five feet two was something and nothing – she would have loved to be tall and willowy. But none of her family were big people and she just had to accept it. ‘Now what?’ she asked.

  ‘Start the darned thing, I s’pose,’ Herbie muttered.

  ‘Will you do it for me, then?’

  Shaking his head to emphasise that this whole episode was against his better judgement, Herbie cranked the handle and the engine spluttered into life. As the cab began to vibrate about her Amy felt a moment’s panic, but this gave way quickly to exhilaration.

  ‘Can I try the gears?’ she shouted above the racket.

  ‘Yes … but put your clutch in first. Thick pedal there!’ Herbie cried, pointing.

  She did as he said with a great deal of crashing at first, but gradually she got the feel of it.

  ‘And where’s reverse? How do I go backwards?’ she asked, remembering Llew’s first lesson.

  ‘Back’ards? I shouldn’t think’ee wanna go for’ards first!’ Agitation was thickening Herbie’s Somerset dialect from his first careful, ‘talking to the boss’s wife’mode of conversation. Then, catching the flash of impatience in her eyes, he added hastily, ‘’Tis’ere, look. You d’do it like this …’

  ‘Can I try now? Can I go round the yard?’

  Herbie cast around a quick, concerned eye. With Llew away with the other lorry there was not much she could hit, he supposed. Only the pile of chippings they had managed to save off the half-dozen loads they had run for the council, because Llew had thought they would fill up the worst of the potholes in the yard, and the latest load of pit-props waiting to be delivered to Midlington Pit. Midlington Pit was only half a mile back up the lane and as always the nearest was the one that got left until last …

  ‘Go on then if you d’want to,’ he said with a sigh.

  That was enough for Amy. With legs and toes stretched almost into cramp she manipulated the pedals and the lorry jerked forward so suddenly that it made her almost cry out.

  ‘Oh – I did it!’ she wanted to say, but of course there was no time. The fence post was rushing up at her and, knuckles white with tension, she yanked on the steering wheel.

  ‘Ease up! Ease her up now!’ Herbie shouted, running after her. As she did as he said and the lorry straightened out, running along parallel with the river that bounded the yard on the south side, she felt the sense of exhilaration returning along with the quickening adrenalin.

  This was fun – and it was easy! Press this pedal and the lorry surged forward, press that one and it slowed down. Pull the wheel – yes, and round it went – easy as riding a bicycle, easier really for Amy had never felt very safe wobbling along on two wheels. But here, high in the lorry cab, lip held tight between her teeth in a paroxysm of concentration, nerves and muscles strained to singing life, she was enjoying herself – just as she had known she would.

  At the bottom of the yard were some outbuildings and a tarpaulin-covered shed with a wood-plank step that Llew used as an office. As she neared them she swung the wheel again so that she travelled in a loose arc to face the way she had started. Then she stopped for a moment to savour her success.

  ‘There you be then, missus. Done now, ’ave you?’ Herbie came panting over, a look of relief lightening his permanently anxious expression.

  She tilted her head, looking at him directly out of the side window of the cab, her eyes sparkling.

  ‘No, I haven’t done, Herbie! I’ve only just started!’

  He swore under his breath and though she did not hear what he said she sensed that he might be about to put his foot down. A new wave of determination surged through her; if he thought she was going to get this far and give up, he was very much mistaken!

  With a quick, decisive movement she banged the lorry into gear again and juggled the pedals. As it jerked forward Herbie shouted, ‘Hoi!’ and ran after it while Amy, afraid he might jump onto the running board and forcibly stop her, pressed her foot down harder on what she thought of as the ‘Go’pedal. With Herbie still running after it, the lorry careered across the yard, out through the gate and, slowing slightly, across the river bridge. Then, with a yank of the wheel Amy turned right, driving for the first time in her life on the highway.

  Llew Roberts’Transport Depot was situated in a finger of valley that followed the river out of Hillsbridge. It was bounded on one side by steep green fields that fell away from the road to Frome and Warminster, and on the other by the railway embankment and, beyond that, ridges of ‘batch’as colliery waste tips were known in this part of the world. Twenty-five pits the faulted Somerset seams had thrown up, and the narrow ridges of waste that ran along above the railway lines and in the shadow of the larger, mountainous mounds had come from only two or three of them. There was no tipping now on the section that overlooked the depot – the trucks carried the waste further along to a new incline – and in an effort to hide the ugly black ridges fir trees had been planted in neat rows. At this time of year – late April – they looked attractive, fresh and green but in summer it would be a different story. The sparks from passing trains would set the trees … or the coal-dust … or both alight, and the fires would burn for days, running along in the combustible ground to emerge in a new spot, spreading devastation and leaving behind charred brown skeletons.

  Sometimes the fires had to be tackled from above, but mostly the fire-engine approached them across the very bridge where Amy was now driving, taking water from the river to try to douse the flames.

  Today, however, there was no fire and the bridge and the road were mercifully clear. Amy swung the lorry out into the road, jogging steadily along the flat valley floor with the fields becoming steep, well-kept allotments to her left and the impressive wooden mill buildings rising on her right. The river shelved here into a small weir and the mill made use of the water power as it had done for generations to grind wheat to flour and process animal feedstuffs. As always the mill was hard at work; a sack of grain was on the pulley halfway up the tall mill-tower as Amy chugged by and the man manipulating it stopped for a moment to turn and watch the lorry pass.